


One of Your Own

by Kyntha



Category: MASH (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Angst and Feels, Blow Jobs, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Confessions, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Drunken Flirting, Explicit Sexual Content, Flirting, Gay Coding, Graphic Depictions of War, Hiding in Plain Sight, Injury Recovery, Korean War, M/M, Major Character Injury, Medical Procedures, Military Homophobia, PTSD John, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Tension, Shower Sex, Singing, Unrequited Love, Unrequited Lust, Unresolved Sexual Tension, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 23:53:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5763763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyntha/pseuds/Kyntha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which John Watson serves in the Korean War and meets Hawkeye Pierce.  They develop a friendship...and more.</p><p>E rating for chapters 4 and 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This epic adventure was conceived in January from a tumblr post by a fellow member of the M*A*S*H fandom who said "What if John Watson served in Korea and met the folks at the 4077th." A couple other folks in then fandom chimed in about what that might look like. I took some of their ideas and nurtured them along into the the baby you see here.
> 
> You may notice lines from both shows interspersed through the dialogue, but often not spoken by the original character. This is intentional. The John Watson portrayed here is meant to be John Watson in the BBC show _Sherlock_ , although I did toss in a few characterizations from other sources.
> 
> Thanks to all those who helped in any way by giving advice and encouragement or helping with research and Brit-picking some of John's dialogue and scenes. 
> 
> The title comes from a dear friend who often says to me that it's easy to "know your own."
> 
> I'm marking this fic as complete, but I'm working on a one off that I anticipate being a 3000(ish) word companion piece to this one - eventually. :-)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Corporal Perkins appeared in MASH s3e23, White Gold, as a medic who attempts to steal penicillin from the 4077th.

The only thing Hawkeye could say for the drive from camp to the battalion aid station was for once it was uneventful. No mortar attacks. No flat tires. No overheated radiators. No Chinese wishing to turn themselves in. Hell, even the weather was agreeable. If he had to come out to the aid station to relieve some British Army doctor for 24 hours while the doctor normally assigned to the station could return to active duty, at least the trip was peaceful. Had Hawkeye been driving along the coast of Maine instead of driving further closer to the front lines of a war - police action - it would have even been an enjoyable drive.

He stopped the jeep outside the aid station and took a deep breath before climbing out and grabbing his medical kit. Raised voices drifted through the canvas hung over an opening in the bamboo hut. _Back to duty, Captain Peirce,_ he thought to himself, adjusting his helmet.

“Bloody hell, hold him down, Perkins!” A short man in a British Army uniform held a syringe in one hand and was making attempts at pinning down the arm of a wounded soldier the size of Dartmouth’s linebacker.

“I’m tryin’, Captain Watson. I’m tryin’!” The American medic flung his body over the patient, only to be thrown off. Hawkeye remembered Perkins, a fairly fit, but thin kid, about 20 years old who often came by the 4077th for supplies or rode in the ambulance with an unstable patient. On their first meeting Perkins and some buddies had broken into the supply room to steal penicillin, a much needed drug I-Corps had been slow to ship the aid station.

“Forget it; you inject him. I’ll hold him down.” Captain Watson barked and tossed a syringe Perkins’ way.  
He lunged at the man still flailing on the cot. The scene reminded Hawkeye of a chihuahua trying to take down an English bulldog. Surprisingly, it seemed the chihuahua was winning.

“Need any help?” Hawkeye offered from the sidelines.

Captain Watson didn’t look up. “Yeah, check on the other guy.”

“Where’s your other medic?” Hawkeye questioned, making a move toward the fray.

“He is my other medic.” Watson growled.

The other medic, a British Army soldier groaned. “What’s your name, son?” Hawkeye asked, moving to his cot. 

“Corporal Bill Murray. It’s nothing major, sir. Large laceration on my calf. Slipped on demolition debris trying to bring that fellow in.” He twisted his body so Hawkeye could get a better look at the leg, hissing at the pain the movement caused. His pants were ripped up the seam. Murray had managed to pack some dressing on the wound himself to stop some of the bleeding.

“Christ, finally.” Hawkeye heard Watson behind him mutter, then “How’s Murray?”

“Doesn’t appear to be any nerve damage, but a pretty big laceration. I think I can close the wound here. Then we can send him to the 4077th for a couple days to rest up.” He nodded in Watson’s direction. “Big guy?” Murray made a small reassuring noise.

From the corner of his eye, Hawkeye saw Watson rub his face with his hands and move to the water tank and make-shift scrub sink in the corner. “Fine. Fine. Mostly superficial lacerations to his upper arms and neck. A couple fragments. We’ll get the worst of them stitched up here in a moment.” He sighed again. “He was in shock when we brought him in. We treated the shock and he came out of it all cocked up. I’ve sedated him for now. He was too impatient for demolition to clear a minefield north of here so he tripped a land mine by tossing a gas can at it. Bloody git.”

Corporal Perkins, the US Army medic, still sat slumped on a packing crate, breathing heavily from the fight. 

Watson stopped at the cot with Hawkeye and Murray. “Captain John Watson, British Army, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I’d shake your hand, but I’d have to scrub again and clean water doesn’t come cheap around here.”

Hawkeye sized up the man before him. Short, compact, dark blond hair and dark eyes. The coloring and size made him momentarily think of Father Mulcahy. Regular Army man from the way he carried himself. “Captain Benjamin Franklin Pierce, 4077 M*A*S*H. Folks call me Hawkeye.”

Captain Watson gave him a half grin. “Last of the Mohicans, eh?”

“My dad’s favorite book.” He smiled back and flashed his baby blues.

A curt nod. “You want to take the baboon or are you good with Murray?”

“Seeing as how I’m already here, I figured I’d finish this dance. If that’s okay with you, Murray.” A smirk and a another flash of blue eyes.

“Sure thing, Captain.” Murray grinned through his pain.

The Goliath of a US Army private they deduced as Hoskins, David slept while Hawkeye and Captain Watson washed up and disposed of used wound dressing. Perkins worked to pack Murray’s belongings for his transfer to the 4077th as Murray looked on from bedroll they’d moved him to.

“The Americans don’t seem to take much mind of uniforms.” Captain Watson eyed the casualness manner Hawkeye wore his uniform.

“Oh, regular Army does. I am not regular Army. They invited me to this party and didn’t give me much chance to decline the invitation.” Hawkeye’s sarcasm crept to the surface. “How about you, Captain Watson?”

“I joined up to pay for med school. Not much family back home, so when this little skirmish rose up, I stayed on. Nothing for me, really, back in London. Murray, my C.O. Major James Sholto, and a couple of the guys in my battalion are about the closest I’ve ever had to a family.” He sent a protective glance to Murray before settling on bundle of blankets on the floor near his buddy. “Murray here is like a younger brother.” 

Hawkeye noted to himself Watson didn’t mention how he saw Sholto. He sank to the floor beside Watson.

“Fancy a drink?” Watson passed a flask to Hawkeye who took a drink before passing it back. “Take a break, Perkins, and have a snort while you can.”

Perkins joined them and took a drink. He then passed it to Murray. “Not much, buddy. Not with that morphine in ya.”

Murray smiled, grateful for a small swallow before sending the flask around again.

“My transport should be here in about an hour.” Watson said to Hawkeye. “Captain Travers is due back from the eight O six three tomorrow at 0930. The replacement medic should come with him.” Watson took another drink and held out the flask. “You’ll take Murray back to the four O double natural with you? What about Hoskins? We could send for a bus to pick up them both today.”

“They’re both stable enough to make it through the night here. If Hoskins can sit up, I’ll let Murray rest on a liter on the way home in the jeep.” Hawkeye nudged the flask in Perkins’ direction. It was early for too much booze, and he didn’t need it as much as the two other men. “How’d you end up manning an American aid station anyway?”

Watson scrubbed his face again with a hand. “Travers and the other medic...”

“Johnston. He was a good guy.” Perkins interjected.

“Yes, Johnston...They were out in the field helping our unit when they got hit.” 

“Sniper fire. Johnston didn’t make it.” Perkins supplied.

“The 8063rd could take most the casualties, but couldn’t spare a doctor. They worked it to have Murray and me stay on a week. The unit is coming back through to make a push up Hill 495. They’re going to need us to set up a new aid station closer to the line, so we have to move out.” Watson took a long drink of the Scotch and rested his head against the bamboo wall.

“Captain Pierce, did you bring any supplies up with you?” Perkins asked in a quiet lull. Murray was slipping between sleep and drugged wakefulness. The morphine and lack of sleep was catching up to him.

“Oh, yeah. There’s a case of penicillin, some gauze, field dressings, and gloves in the back of the jeep.” Hawkeye rose to help. “No need to steal from us this time around.” He smiled broadly at Perkins. 

“Never gonna live that down, am I?” Perkins placed his hand on Hawkeye’s shoulder. “I’ll get it, sir. Can’t be more than a trip or two.”

Hawkeye decided to take Perkins up on his offer and moved back to the pile of blankets. “You married, Watson?”

Watson shook his head.

“Girlfriend, then?”

Murray, finding bleary consciousness, snorted a small chuckle. “Three Continents Watson? This man here docks his ship in every port.” There was a note of admiration in the suggestion.

At the remark, Hawkeye looked Watson over again. While it wasn’t always the case, he knew from personal experience sometimes a reputation with women was a facade. “Oh yeah?” Hawkeye grinned.

Before Watson could speak, Murray offered again, “There isn’t a nurse in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers Captain Watson hasn’t hit up. Well, the female ones, at least.” He laughed.

Watson laughed with him. “Speak for yourself.” Murray took the statement as a joke, but Hawkeye saw Watson’s quiet glance in his direction, the subtle lick of his lips only another one hiding in plain sight would catch or understand. “How about you, Hawkeye? Anyone special back home?”

He shook his head, working through exactly what to say. John Watson was attractive, that much was for certain. Another time, another place Hawkeye might even try to make a move. For now, it was always helpful to know your own.

A lick of the lips. “Someone keeping your bunk warm at camp?” Pronouns were noticeably absent from Watson’s lexicon.

The image of a certain someone with dirty blond hair and blue eyes and a frustrating vow of celibacy flashed through Hawkeye’s mind. “I haven’t managed quite as colorful a epithet as you, Watson, but my former tent mate liked to call me a degenerate.” Hawkeye smirked and flashed his baby blues. “There is one I’d like to be a certain someone special, but...” He trailed off and lifted his hands in a helpless gesture.

“Married?”

“Married to the work.”

“Dreadful.” Watson grimaced in sympathy. He glanced at Murray who had drifted back to sleep. Hawkeye in turn watched the canvas turn door over the opening to the hut. “One in our unit like that too.” Watson’s voice lowered. “And believe me, I’ve tried.”

Perkins raised the canvas at that moment and plunked at case of penicillin near the two makeshift exam tables.. “You done us up good this time, Captain! Where’d you get the canned peaches?”

Hawkeye sent a pointed glance at Watson before rising to help Perkins unpack supplies. “I nearly forgot about those. I-Corps surplus.”

“Tinned peaches?” Watson asked, hunger gleaming in his eyes. “Real tinned peaches?”

Hawkeye laughed and tossed him a can. “Help yourself.”

Watson caught it easily. “Ta for that. Had enough field rations for a lifetime.” 

Watson made to pop the lid on the can, but was on his feet a half second later yelling at Perkins to “Get down!” and throwing his body over the still sleeping Hoskins on the exam table.

Another half second later the motor blast hit almost close enough to shake the hut to rubble. A second and third motor blast hit further away at the same time. Perkins dragged Hawkeye to the floor. In the corner Murray jerked up in alarm. “Stay down, Murray!” Waston commanded.

Debris fell from the ceiling, covering every surface with dirt and dried bamboos leaves from the thatched roof. Hawkeye thought wildly he was glad they hadn’t opened the case of penicillin before realizing Murray was struggling to get to his feet. Another mortar blast as close as the first hit again as Hawkeye found himself crawling out from under Perkins to get to Murray. 

“We’ve got to get the wounded, Captain!” Murray shouted, whether at Watson or himself Hawkeye wasn’t sure. What he was sure about was if Murray continued to struggle, he’d rip open all the stitches.

The same thought must have occurred to Watson who looked over to Murray and Hawkeye in the corner. “Pierce, any combat experience?” At Hawkeye’s mirthful laugh, Watson took charge. “Right, right. You and Murray stay here. Perkins and I will go out for wounded. Try to scrub best you can and get an apron on. Murray, radio both MASH units for ambulances. And try to reach Sholto. Tell him the US 14th Infantry Regiment is going to need help up here.”

Watson motioned to Perkins. “Help me move Hoskins...and pray the git doesn’t come to. The canvas door flap blew up as another blast hit across the road from the hut. “Christ. Keep your sidearm close, Hawkeye!” And Watson was out the door with Perkins before Hawkeye could even think of a blithe retort about not carrying a gun.

The radio crackled. Hawkeye could hear Klinger’s voice on the other end as he scrubbed. “...Captain Pierce?”

“He made it, Corporal. Get those buses up here PDQ.” Murray shouted above the din. Another mortar blast.

Hawkeye dried his hands on something resembling a clean towel and found an apron that wasn’t thoroughly contaminated by falling debris. He dug through the box Perkins brought in for gloves. Murray had made it to a standing position. “Captain Pierce, I think I could make it if I just stay in one spot. You’re going to need all the help you can get.” 

He nodded as Watson burst through the door with the first casualty, a British private. “Sholto was 500 meters from here when the first blast hit.” Watson said grimly. Hawkeye didn’t ask if he meant the unit or the man himself. He shifted into automatic. Murray pointed him to field dressings on a shelf near the door, and he packed off a stomach wound.

Two hours later Watson and Hawkeye stripped off their gloves. Toe tags on two boys - one British, one American. Six of the worst cases were sent to the 8063rd who, assuming Travers was up to it, had an extra surgeon. A sketchy chest wound came in as Perkins and Watson loaded the ambulance with less urgent cases for the 4077th. 

“This guy has to go right away!” Hawkeye exclaimed. The soldier had been shot in the upper left chest too near the aortic artery. “Here...Murray, put pressure on this.” Hawkeye replaced his hand with Murray’s over the wound.

“Watson, pull the leg wound off that bus and put this chest case on. Winchester at the 4077 needs to get him on the table first. I can patch up the leg wound here enough he can wait for a jeep pick him up.” Hawkeye hopped into the ambulance. 

“The eighty-two twenty-eight has choppers on stand-by. We can send him there.” Perkins offered.  
A shake of the head. “No, someone needs to keep pressure on that wound or he’ll bleed out before we get him there. Winchester might be a pompous windbag, but he’s the best thoracic surgeon in Korea.”

“So who’s going to ride along with him?” Hawk noticed Watson’s left hand curling and uncurling into a fist.

“Murray. He was headed there anyway. I’ve checked his stitches. The dressing has pulled free, but otherwise he’s doing okay.”

“Yeah, yeah. Alright.” Watson attempted to wipe dirt and sweat from his face only to smear it further.

*****

“BJ!” Major Houlihan’s voice screeched across the compound. “I need you!” Her head was halfway out the ambulance window.

“Message for you, Captain Hunnicutt.” Murray said weakly when BJ stepped aboard the ambulance. He was pale from the ride. “Captain Pierce said let Winchester have this guy.”

“Oh, he did, did he?” BJ moved Murray’s hand and lifted the field dressing. “Damn, I hate when he’s right. Okay.” He stuck his head out out the window. “Corpsman! This guy goes first. Tell Winchester to scrub.”

Murray sank into the spot the litter left behind. “You’re not looking so good yourself, fella.” BJ observed.

“Corporal Murray, Medic, British Army. I’m okay. Demolition debris to my leg. Captain Pierce stitched me up at the aid station, but I think I tore some stitches on the ride.”

“Mmm...Hawkeye’s knitting held up alright. Just need new dressing.” BJ smiled. “Kellye, Hawk’s already patched this kid up. Get him settled in Post-Op with a shot of penicillin and morphine.”

Murray smiled at Kellye. “You sure do make ‘em pretty in the States, Captain. Captain Watson’d love to pay you all a visit.” He slung an arm over Kellye’s shoulder.

BJ sent a glance Murray’s direction. He wondered if Watson’s womanizing meant the same as Hawkeye’s. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to let Hawkeye volunteer to man the aid station after all. Not that BJ cared what (or in this case, who) Hawkeye did in the dark corner of the supply tent. It was one thing to risk a blue slip with another draftee. It was another thing to risk it with one of their allies. 

*****

The bamboo wall wobbled under Hawkeye’s weight after the attacks, but he was too drained to sit, lest he fall asleep. Perkins was already sleeping soundly on the last empty liter. A jeep had returned for the kid with the leg wound and a now awake and docile Private Hoskins. Watson checked his gear, muscles tense under his dishevelled and dusty uniform. He mashed his pith helmet on his head just as a voice at the canvas door called “Watson?” The voice was confident and low, with that quality that carried without needing to be loud.

“Only ghosts in here.” Hawkeye quipped too exhausted to mind his manners.

The canvas lifted and a stern British commander appeared. He stood stock straight, uniform perfectly arranged, face blank, awaiting his salute from Captain Watson. If Hawkeye hadn’t known the man had just helped command a minor skirmish, Hawk would have thought he’d come straight from the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. The man was so military, he made General Douglas MacArthur himself look like a civilian. Hell, he even made Hawkeye want to salute him.

Watson snapped to attention and saluted, but even in his exhaustion Hawkeye didn’t miss the quick flick of Watson’s tongue across his lips or the way his eyes softened almost imperceptibly when he looked at the man in the doorway. “Major Sholto,” Ah-ha. Sholto. Watson had it as bad as Hawkeye. “May I introduce Captain Pierce, USArmy, 4077 MASH.”

“Major Sholto.” Hawkeye pushed himself off the wall, but refrained from his uncharacteristic urge to salute. The two men met eye to eye. Where Hawkeye commanded the room by his personality, Sholto did by his height and rank. Six foot two never seemed to fill a room so much as it did on the British major. His pale grey eyes and expressionless face studied Hawkeye. “Captain.”

“I - I didn’t expect you to come for us personally, Major.” Hawkeye also didn’t miss the slight stammer in Watson’s voice.

Sholto surveyed the room, eyes resting momentarily on Perkins sleeping in the corner. “I had hoped to speak to Murray before he was evacuated. Moral support, you know.”

As stiff and formal as the exchange was, there was also an underlying hint of fondness in Watson’s eyes. “Yes, well, we sent him to Captain Peirce’s unit earlier than anticipated.” Watson continued the explanation of the chest wound case.

“Murray has always been unfailingly dedicated.” Sholto murmured. “You will watch over him until he’s ready to return to my unit, Captain Piece?”

Reassurances were made Murray was under the best care possible. A young private came in to gather Watson’s gear. “Well, then, Pierce.” He shook Hawkeye’s hand.

“I’d like to say it was a pleasure, Watson, but...”

“No, no. Maybe another time.” There was that slight lick of the lips again, accompanied by a small smile that crinkled the edges of his eyes.

Hawkeye gave Watson one of his well practiced smirks. “Maybe.” And he watched Watson’s face soften in Sholto’s direction as they climbed into a jeep together.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short spinets of conversation between some of the major players.

Spare litters and piles of rough wool blankets in the corner of a dilapidated hut spoiled Watson over the last week. Yet he was back with his family - and Sholto. So he decided to make the best of the abandoned foxhole he and Sholto bunked down in for the night. In the morning Watson and another medic would search out a location for a new aid station. Tonight, though, there was a sandbag for a pillow and his friend for company.

He popped the top on a can of tinned peaches Hawkeye had pressed into his hand on his departure. “James?” Watson offered the tin to Sholto.

The use of Sholto’s first name earned him a sharp look. “Everyone is bedded down for the night, sir.”

Sholto’s face relaxed into something more informal. “Tinned peaches?”

“From the American. Useful for something I suppose.” Watson grinned. “Care to share?” He dared to let his fingers linger over James’ as he passed over the tin. Much to Watson’s chagrin, Sholto didn’t seem to notice. 

The silence, for once, seemed to lay heavy between the two men. They’d known each other since training. Had come up together. Most nights John Watson accepted knowledge James may never return John’s affection that grew deeper than mere friendship. Tonight was not most nights. Perhaps it was the subtle flirting with Hawkeye, for he was certain that’s what it had been. Perhaps it was the week’s separation, although they’d been separated for longer periods before. Perhaps it was seeing Murray injured and the dawning realization they weren’t immortal. 

Whatever the reason, John fished another peach out of the tin with the tip of his clasp knife and cleared his throat. “You know it’s rare for us to sit together like this. Two old friends talking.”

“Mmmm...Yes.” But Sholto made no further comment.

“Damn it, James, why are you so determined to be alone?”

“Spontaneity has its time and its place, John. War is neither the time nor the place. Especially for a commanding officer.” Watson could just make out the hard lines in Sholto’s face.

“You're a tribute to man's endurance, sir.” He sighed, not bothering to hide the edge of bitterness in his voice. “You’ll excuse me. I need to get some shut-eye.”

*****

“Your friend Captain Watson was quite the charmer, Dr. Pierce. We had a nice conversation.” Kellye noted as she waited for Hawkeye to sign Corporal Murray’s discharge papers. “It appears he’s an admirer of Wilde”

“You think, Kellye?” Hawkeye commented.

“Oh yes, sir. I find it’s often easy to know your own.” She glanced at Hawkeye quickly. “Anyway, Captain Watson seemed quite sorry he missed you.”

“Mmm...sounds like I should be sorry I missed him too.” Hawkeye murmured more lewdly than he intended.

“Yes, sir, I should think so.”

*****

A figure sat hunched over a cup of coffee in the otherwise empty mess tent. Hawkeye stumbled to the urn after a short, but grueling OR session.

“Corporal Murray!” Hawkeye smiled as he recognized the man nursing his coffee. “Didn’t expect you see you in the 4077.”

“I drove down to get some supplies.” He grinned at a familiar face. “Sholto arranged it with your C.O. yesterday. Klinger fixed me up. Just having a cuppa before I head back.”

“How’s the wound healing up?”

“Captain Watson removed your stitches the day after he picked me up. Now there’s only a bit of scarring, sir. Something I can show to the girls back home when this is all over.” He pulled a small packet of waxed paper from his breast pocket. “Oh, Watson asked me to give you this. He’s says it’s thanks for the tinned peaches. Treacle toffee from his sister.”

“Er...thanks.”

“Doesn’t look like much, I know, but Watson’s sister’s toffee goes for high stakes in our poker games. Watson said to share it with the married one. It might inspire a divorce.” Murray had an adorable sideways grin. 

Hawkeye couldn’t help a rueful baritone laugh as he pictured Father Mulcahy smiling around a bite of toffee. Sure, Mulcahy might love it; he did have a sweet tooth. Toffee, no matter how good though, was not enough to convince him to break a vow of celibacy. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

*****

“Well, Captain Watson, as I live and breath!” Hawkeye exclaimed when he saw Watson jump out of the back of an ambulance. He was on his way back to OR after a 2 hour nap. The whole camp was nearing the end of a 24 hour session. “What brings you to our little corner of paradise?”

“Rode along with a head case. ‘Fraid he didn’t make the trip.” There was a grim moment of silence. “A couple more for you, though.” Watson jerked his head the direction of the bus.

Hawkeye called for Klinger and Igor to unload the bus while he climbed aboard to start triage. “How’s it been on the line? Too tired to scrub in? Colonel Potter’s ready for a break. He’s been at it about 10 hours now.”

“Ten? You’ve not been getting that much work from us. Point me the direction of Pre-Op, then.”

Hawkeye entered the O.R. with Watson close behind a few minutes later. “Gentlemen, meet Captain John Watson. British Army. Watson, that’s Colonel Potter. You’ll cover for him. Behind door number two you’ll find BJ Hunnicutt. And behind curtain number three, Major Pompus Windbag.”

“That’s Winchester.” Charles huffed.

“You remember Nurse Kellye from a couple months back. And this is our very own Major Hot Lips Houlihan.”

“Colonel!”

“Can it, Pierce. Captain Watson mighty glad to have the help. With you here, I’ll feel better about going to get a little shut eye.” Potter dropped an instrument on the tray beside him. “Corpsman! Watson, I’ll leave the next boy in your capable hands.”

The five men Watson brought in along with a jeep and a chopper load of wounded shortly after had the four doctors working another five hours. They staggered into the changing room, BJ leaning heavily on Hawkeye. “Just point me to my bed.” He mumbled.

“C’mon, Beej. I know you had the first nap, but sleep on your own shoulder.” Hawkeye pushed BJ up so he could strip off his scrub shirt. “Watson, care to swing by the Swamp for a drink? We’ve got the best rotgut this side of Seoul.”

“Freshly brewed this morning.” BJ slurred. “I put in a couple lemon cough drops for flavor.”

All three men entered the Swamp. Hawkeye and BJ collapsed on their beds as soon as they hit the door, and before Hawkeye could pour Watson a drink Hawk was sound asleep. “Guess I’ll help myself then.” Watson mused, making his way to the still.

*****

Rosie’s Bar was hopping. Much to Hawkeye’s delight, even Father Mulcahy had found his way over from camp. Hawkeye sat down at his table. “Ahh...Life, Liberty, and Pursuit of happy hour. Can I buy you another beer, Father?”

“Well good evening, Hawkeye. Yes, I believe I could indulge in one more beer. Thank you.” Mulcahy looked over his glasses at Hawkeye. A waitresses made a pass by the table and Hawkeye motioned his order to her.

Several G.I.’s from the 14th Regiment seemed to have found a night off. There were kids Hawkeye didn’t recognize hitting up the nurses. One especially attractive specimen of testosterone danced with Nurse Able near enough the table Hawkeye could enjoy the view without seeming obvious. Another G.I. and Nurse Baker were making out near the jukebox and a third couple pressed against each other at the bar.

“Rosie’s seems to be modeled after the Chicago sewer system tonight.” Mulcahy murmured. He looked uncomfortable at the obvious public displays of affection.

“They’re all just blowing off steam, Father.” Hawkeye met his eyes. “Surely you have...impulses.”

Father Mulcahy blushed wildly. “Hawkeye, I’m a priest. I’m not supposed to have those urges!”

“Everyone has urges, Father. It’s just a matter of whether or not you act on them.”

“Hawkeye!” Mulcahy exclaimed. “I don’t think this is an appropriate conversation for us to be having. Excuse me. I think it’s best I find...tamer entertainment tonight.”

Hawkeye sighed as he watched Father Mulcahy walk out the door. He finished his beer before finding refuge in the Swamp for stronger libations.


	3. Chapter 3

Two men sparred together in the makeshift boxing ring Father Mulcahy had installed near the edge of camp. One man Hawkeye spotted at once as the good Father himself, not that he was surprised. Mulcahy often boxed with other willing members of the camp or on occasion shadow boxed if no partner could be found. It was also not unusual for Hawkeye to watch him from afar. And that is what Hawkeye was doing today following Post-Op duty. He leaned casually against the corner of the hospital and attempted to keep his gaze distant and uninterested as though he were taking a break to enjoy the fresh air and late afternoon sun.

Both men wore their fatigue pants and undershirts. _Must have been an impromptu match, then_. Hawkeye reasoned. Father Mulcahy’s black undershirt pulled tight across his chest and shoulders showing Hawkeye a treasured glimpse of the muscled form that was normally hidden by the uniform, scrubs, or vestments. The other man didn’t immediately look familiar, but there were often visiting commanding officers, medics, and other personnel who enjoyed burning off a little steam in any number of ways.

The two men were close in stature and in coloring, enough so from this distance Hawkeye would have a challenge telling the two men apart were it not for Mulcahy's black shirt. The other man did seem to have a slight advantage in the weight department, likely a middleweight instead of Mulcahy's lightweight classification. He had no fat on him, though. All his weight was still pure muscle. Hawkeye could make out the strong arms and back even from his vantage point. They seemed to be even in their ability. Mulcahy danced in the ring expertly, dodging most of the punches thrown his way. His opponent was able to throw more punches, but dodge fewer directed at him.

“Bloody hell, that was a good one!” Mulcahy's opponent exclaimed in reaction to a well connected left to his jaw.

Mulcahy grinned the same time Hawkeye did. He knew that voice and that delightful British accent. Captain John Watson had come to call. Using the excuse to visit an old friend, Hawkeye made his way in the direction of the boxing ring. He joined BJ and a few other onlookers who had drifted over to the ring following the break up of a pickup game of basketball taking place nearby. “Isn't that your British Army pal?” BJ asked.

Hawkeye nodded in affirmation. Mulcahy landed another left. Watson made contact with an uppercut, then watched as Mulcahy dodged out of the way of a jab. “Watch out for his uppercut, Watson!” Hawkeye yelled, cheering with the crowd. The two men danced around each other. Watson threw a punch that should have knocked Mulcahy down, but Mulcahy dodged easily and threw an uppercut that put Watson on the ground. 

Mulcahy laughed and reached out his hand to Watson. “Hawkeye did warn you.”

Watson smiled working his jaw. “Right. Right.”

BJ lifted the ropes for both men and doctors and a priest stood in a group. “Beej, you remember Captain John Watson. And in case you didn't get a formal introduction before he landed that punch, this is Father John Francis Mulcahy.”

Watson watched Hawkeye's eyes light up a bit brighter when he looked at Mulcahy. “Nice to be formally introduced, Father.”

“The pleasure is mine.”

“Oooo...” Hawkeye crowed as if making a sudden discovery. “Look at me between two Johns.” He leered at Watson, but softened his face and eyes before looking in Mulcahy’s direction. “I’m all a-flutter.”

“Hawk...” BJ shook his head in warning.

“Well, it seems Captain Watson owes me a drink." Mulcahy retrieved his shirt and Panama hat from a nearby oil drum, ignoring the comment. “Hawkeye, BJ would you two like to join us?”

“I thought you'd never ask.” Hawkeye smirked at Mulcahy.

“I'll take mine to go. I want to get a letter out to Peg on the next truck.” BJ continued his warning glare in Hawkeye’s direction.

“Two martinis.” Hawkeye signaled to Igor when they walked into the Officers Club. “And put it on his tab.”

“Oh no you don't, you git. Last time you invited me for a drink you fell asleep. I had to help myself to that swill you call gin.” Watson laughed. “He's paying for his own booze. I'll take a Scotch and a beer for your priest.”

The four men settled at a table. “So Watson, I take it you’re our British replacement in the doctor exchange. We sent Winchester off to hospital unit earlier today.” BJ started.

“Yeah, Watson, how’d you swing a cushy job like lounging around with us the next week?” Hawkeye chimed in. “Last I heard you were headed north.”

“That’s been a while. Our unit has been cooling our heels south of here since I brought that head case in, what...four weeks ago.” Watson took a drink. “I couldn’t take the boredom, so I volunteered. Good excuse to see you lot again.” He rubbed his jaw again. “Say, Mulcahy, where’d you learn to box like that?”

“I began as a youngster at the CYO, but it certainly helped to have 3 older brothers who took great delight in taking out their rambunctiousness on their siblings.” Father Mulcahy took a swallow of beer.

“Oh Father, come play the piano for us.” Nurse Kellye stopped by the table. “Klinger and I want to dance, but the jukebox is down again.”

“Well, I...” Mulcahy started, but Hawkeye interrupted.

“Don’t mind us, Father. We’ll save you a seat.”

Mulcahy moved to the piano and played something lively.

Watson cocked his head. “Not much of a piano player.”

Hawkeye grinned fondly in Mulcahy’s direction. “The longer you’re here, the better he gets.”

“Well, I’m going to head out.” BJ drained his glass. “Watson, there’s an extra bunk in the Swamp. You’re welcome to stay with us while you’re here.”

“Ta for that, BJ. Just no more of that home brewed gin!” He watched BJ walk out the door of the O.C. “Not a bad looking fellow.” Watson nodded in the direction of the door as it swung shut.

“Beej? He’s madly and hopelessly in love with his wife. Besides,” Hawkeye met Watson’s eyes, “I prefer my doctors clean-shaven.”

“Hawkeye, come join me! I need a baritone over here!” Father Mulcahy called from the piano, breaking the tension. Mulcahy began playing the opening bars of _Button Up Your Overcoat._

Hawkeye tore his eyes from Watson’s and stood. “He’s playing our song.”

Watson leaned back to watch the two men perform. Hawkeye’s eyes were full of affection for Mulcahy, and their faces came dangerously close together as they rounded the last stanza.

_“Keep away from bootleg hooch_  
_When you're on a spree,_  
_Oh, take good care of yourself,_  
_You belong to me!”_

“Oi, you have it worse than me.” Watson said softly when Hawkeye returned to the table. “Married to the work is an understatement.”

Hawkeye rubbed the back of his neck and took a long drink. “Tell me about it.”

Mulcahy started _The Nearness of You_ , singing in his high warbly tenor.

_It's not the pale moon that excites me_  
_That thrills and delights me, oh no_  
_It's just the nearness of you_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hawkeye and Father Mulcahy did sing _Button Up Your Overcoat_ on M*A*S*H. I couldn't find their version on YouTube, but this one is rather lovely: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6UliCMEdTFE
> 
> My favorite version of _The Nearness of You_ , originally a Glenn Miller tune, is Norah Jones updated version found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8We0SwZHd9A


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawkeye and John find their way to the supply hut. NSFW

Skin glowed almost as golden in the dim light as Hawkeye had often imagined Father Mulcahy's would. He admired the naked back of the man leaned over a large packing crate and tried to understand how they'd gotten themselves in this position. They’d been listening to Mulcahy play songs on the piano and commiserating together in hushed tones.

“Any luck with Sholto?” Hawkeye had asked.

“I - I don’t...”

“Oh come on. I saw the look on your face in the aid station. It’s the same look you saw on mine 5 minutes ago! Don’t kid a kidder, Watson.” Hawkeye scoffed.

Watson shook his head sadly. “Not a damned bit. Somedays I could swear the tension is there. Others...Well, even as long as I've known him, I might as well be talking to a stranger.”

They both drained their glasses - a second drink for both of them. “Maybe I’m reading it all wrong. Earlier, you and me, there was tension, yeah?” Watson glanced about the room nervously.

Hawkeye leaned in close. “I’ll tell you what, Watson, why don’t you let me give you a tour of the camp beginning with the supply hut? Then you can tell me.” He laid the famous Hawkeye come hither smirk on thick.

“A break in the gloom? Brilliant.” Watson licked his lips.

Once inside the hut it had been a sudden flurry of hands and mouths and hastily shed clothing.

Hawkeye ran a hand down Watson’s back who shuddered in return. “You okay, Watson - John? We can switch if you’d rather.”

“No. No. This is good.” Watson groaned at another light caress down his back. “Just - it’s been a while.”

Hawkeye leaned over John, letting his breath blow warm across his ear. “Don’t worry. I’ll go slow.” He whispered it low and hoarse with as much lewdness as he could muster. John shuddered when Hawkeye bit down on the space between neck and shoulder. Not enough to leave a mark; he knew without being told that was taboo. Just enough to elicit a shudder, a groan, a pulse of hips against Hawkeye's own nude form.

John Watson was all muscle. His chest was built like a pit bull. Hawkeye took in the smooth skin with fine short hairs beginning to goosepimple at the attention and taut stomach in under his deft hands. One hand teased the coarser hairs that spread down to John’s groin while the other skimmed back up to tiny round nubs of nipples. Hawk gave one an experimental pinch. John groaned and turned to kiss Hawkeye over his shoulder, sloppy and uncoordinated in their position. Their teeth clacked together. A firmer pinch elicited a louder groan and a bite to Hawk’s lower lip.

“Like that, do you?” he whispered.

“Do it again and see how much.” John moaned into Hawkeye’s mouth.

Not one to turn down a dare, he shifted hands and rolled the other nipple between his fingers hard.

“Christ!” John bucked against Hawkeye, grinding his hips into Hawkeye’s nearly erect prick. “Christ!” He groaned again. Hawkeye moved both hands to John’s pecs and applied pressure to bring him to standing, back to chest. John stood nearly a full foot shorter, fitting under Hawkeye’s chin. His cock rubbed against the small of John’s back. 

Hawkeye began walking them toward the far corner of the hut. “Mattress.” He mumbled in John's ear. He reached across to a shelf midway through their awkward journey. An open box of tongue depressors fell to its side as Hawkeye searched blindly on the shelf while kissing John whose neck still twisted over his shoulder to meet Hawkeye's lips. A hundred wooden sticks tumbled to the floor. “Need lube.”

“Right, right. Jesus, Hawkeye.”

“All wound up, are you, John?” Hawkeye teased.

“Just find the damn lube.” He drove this demand home by reaching back and giving Hawkeye's cock a good tug.

John was rewarded by a sharp pinch to his nipple and a triumphant “Ah-ha!” Hawkeye kicked tongue depressors with his bare foot as he pushed John toward the mattress.

John stretched out on his back on the spare cot mattress no one ever bothered to put away. Indeed, it seemed the whole camp simply ignored its existence in the back corner of the supply tent unless two lucky souls felt need for its use. The blanket was mostly clean and two lumpy pillows sat at the head, leaning against the wall as if to make something resembling a headboard. “Quite the cozy nest you lot have made back here.”

“Mmmm...” Hawkeye crowded into John’s space, wedging a knee between John’s legs and wrapped a hand around John’s throat. He propped himself against the wall just over the pillows with the other hand. “Captain John Watson, I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going to go slow at all. I’m going to destroy you.” Hawkeye growled looking down into John’s grey green eyes.

He felt the man shudder under him. “Well, then, go on.” John rose up to meet Hawkeye’s thigh, grinding himself into it, never breaking eye contact. It was a challenge, then, and oh, did Hawkeye love a challenge!

Hawkeye shifted, straddling John and lowering himself down, rolling his hips, grinding their cocks together and bringing himself back up to meet John’s lips with his. His face was flushed red, his lips wet and parted, gasping at the sensation. Breaking the kiss, Hawkeye rolled his body again before swooping down to claim those lips once more. John's hands wandered down Hawkeye's lean back. His thick fingers splayed over the rise of his hips.

“You bloody git, fuck me already.” John demanded at the fourth roll of Hawkeye's body up and back down his own.

“Not until you say please.”

“Christ, Hawkeye, please.” John found the tube of surgical lube Hawkeye had abandoned by his hip and practically threw it at him. “Fuck me slow or so hard we shake this hut to the ground. I don’t care. Just do it already.”

At John’s words, Hawkeye shivered. He hadn’t reduced anyone, man or woman, to this amount of pure base animalistic need since...well, he was too busy fumbling with the lube and coating a finger with it to do the math.

He shuffled positions again to press John's legs open and settle himself between them. John gripped Hawkeye's hips as Hawk leaned over to suck in a nipple. He snagged it between his teeth and twirled his tongue over the hard puckered tip. John moved his hands to Hawkeye's ass and dug fingers in hard, pulling him so their cocks bumped and rubbed and twitched together in no particular rhythm. It wasn't enough friction or relief for either of them. John raised his body off the mattress searching something, anything more.

Hawkeye traced wet patternless lines down John's chest and stomach with an expert tongue The abdominal muscles tensed and contracted at the sensation. He let one hand stay on John's chest and let the other with the lube slick finger trail from the bushy patch of hair in his groin to the tight puckered hole deep between his legs. John jumped. “Hawkeye!”

One finger pressed in and moved past the tight muscle beckoning Hawkeye further. Hawk wiggled the finger experimentally. At John's gasp, he pressed in deeper before pulling out again. “It has been a long time, hasn't it.” He mocked. His voice was gravely

“Not much chance for fucking in a foxhole. _Jesus!_ ” Hawkeye had given his finger a rough twist. Hawkeye looked down watching his finger slide in and out of John’s hole as John turned back and forth underneath him. The sight of controlling a regular Army man, all duty and honor caused Hawkeye’s cock to harden even more. Most of his conquests since he’d been to Korea had been draftees he’d picked up in Seoul. They were fun, but didn’t spend their days commanding control and their nights wishing for an outlet to abandon it now and again. Oh sure, Hawkeye could switch and let them take what they wanted. But to truly find that someone who needed to be transformed into a shivering, begging puddle of nerves. It was glorious.

As John’s hole relinquished its resistance, Hawkeye added another finger. He turned them inside John, parting them to feel the stretch, closing them again. He ran them along the edge of the tight muscle. John watched Hawkeye’s face. The lines of concentration; the half lidded eyes of passion; the quiet smirk of conquest. For all the talk Hawkeye did, John found he was oddly quiet in intimacy. His hands wandered over Hawkeye's arms, reached for a grasp of upper thigh, tightened in the blanket beneath him.

“Another. Ready for another.” He moaned, shuddering when Hawkeye curled the two fingers and brushed against his prostate. Hawk pulled his fingers out and quickly added a third. His cock was leaking against his leg and he moved his free hand down to stroke his length a couple times. John did the same for his own dripping cock. “Now.” John breathed below him. “Need it now.”  


Hawkeye grinned. He leaned in to raise John’s lower body up. “No. No. Wait.” John grunted, flipping himself over to his hands and knees. “This way.”

Hawkeye’s grin became an outright lecherous leer. “Oh, John...” He grabbed the lube and slicked his length before adjusting his weight forward again.  


John moaned at the sudden welcome intrusion. The length of Hawkeye’s body lay over him, heavy and solid and motionless. His body tightened and relaxed, tightened and relaxed around Hawkeye’s cock until he could take no more of the stillness and bucked backward. At his movement Hawkeye gripped his hip with one hand and pressed forward again. Soon their combined pace was frantic and filled with need.

“John...” Hawkeye moaned in his ear. “John. John. John.”

Watson couldn’t be sure if Hawkeye meant to be calling his name or Mulcahy’s, but in the moment, as he pictured Sholto, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the physiological pleasure and the subsequent release. He reached back, supporting himself on one elbow, dragging Hawkeye down with him, and grabbed at Hawkeye’s thigh. “Soon. Soon. Soon,” became his own chant, begging the man on top of him to touch him, to jerk his cock into orgasm. Hawkeye got the picture easy enough. His hand wrapped around John’s member and stroked down at each thrust in so that they were moving in a rhythm that would drive them both toward orgasm.

Thick streams of come spurted across the wool blanket beneath John. He shook. His knees threatened to collapse. Lights like mortar shells exploding in the night flashed behind his eyes. Hawkeye drove himself further into John, seeking his own impending relief, and cried out “John!” one final time when he came in a sudden single burst. It was then John’s legs did collapse, bringing both men down to the itchy, damp, too warm mattress in a shuddering, spasming, sweating heap. The didn’t move for long moments, both in their own spaces, finding themselves again.

Hawkeye stirred first and licked a wet trail along the patch of skin at John’s neck where his face had landed. “That - that was...” He trailed off. 

“Yes. Yes. Quite....” After a few more long moments, John shrugged. “Could you....You’re heavy.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” Hawkeye rose to his elbows and pulled out. Evidence of their union seeped out of John and dribbled over his balls. Hawkeye watched fascinated by the sight, dipping a finger in the mess and painting it over John’s thighs.

“Jesus, you’re filthy.” John huffed a laugh and looked over his shoulder.

The seriousness of their act was gone. “I aim to please, Captain Watson.” Hawkeye gave him a patented smirk.

“Good. Because next time I want to see if I can wipe that smirk off your face.”

“And just how do you propose to do that?”

John rolled to his back and pulled Hawkeye’s mouth to his. “By putting that big mouth of yours to good use.”

Despite himself, Hawkeye’s cock twitched as he grinned against John’s lips.

At that moment a _tap taptaptap tap_ came from the side of the supply hut. “Hawk!” BJ Hunnicutt’s loud whisper followed. Hawkeye groaned, but responded, _tap tap_ and then “You have lousy timing, Beej.”

“All officers in Potter’s office in 10 minutes.” A pause. “You’re invited too, Captain Watson.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic operating room scene. If you can handle watching M*A*S*H, you're probably okay, but this is your fair warning. Also short smut scene near the end. This chapter is NSFW.
> 
> Dobong-Gu is located north of Seoul and south of Uijeongbu. As the crow flies, it's about 7 miles from the 4077.

Hawkeye rolled up the wool blanket on the mattress into a ball while John found trousers and pants. He tossed Hawkeye’s uniform to him. They pulled on clothing in comfortable silence and just before they walked out the door, Hawkeye scooped up the scattered tongue depressors. “I’ll meet up with you at Potter’s office. Need to take care of these first. Head to the Swamp. Beej can show you the way.”

The two men slipped out of the supply hut one at a time. Hawkeye turned toward the hospital to mix the soiled blanket into the laundry from Post Op. He then dropped tongue depressors into a barrel ready to be loaded onto a truck headed for the garbage dump. By the time he circled back around camp to Potter’s office the rest of senior staff was assembling. As Hawkeye took the empty seat next to Mulcahy, he noticed Margaret turning on the charm with Watson.

“Captain Watson, it’s so good to see you again. What a lovely surprise to have you back at the 4077 as part of our surgeon exchange.” Margaret’s voice was velvety.

“Yes, well. I couldn’t turn down a chance to see you lot again.” Watson smiled. “It’s especially lovely to see you, Major Houlihan.” Seeing Watson in action, Hawkeye understood how he’d gained the reputation Three Continents Watson.

Margaret turned on the coy blush. “Oh, please call me Margaret. Perhaps, if you’re not too busy, you might join me in a drink while you’re here?”

Watson glanced quickly in Hawkeye’s direction, grinning at their secret before responding, “Margaret, it would be my pleasure.”

Oh, he was smooth, almost smoother than Hawkeye. Hawkeye grinned back in admiration.

“Okay, folks. Enough with the chit-chat. Now that Pierce has agreed to join us, let’s get down to the brass tacks.” Potter spoke up, oblivious to the flirtation. “It looks like everyone remembers Captain Watson, British Army. He’s with us for the week while Winchester is in Seoul with a British unit. Let’s all try to learn from each other and get along. Watson, Klinger’ll get you set up in the VIP tent.”

BJ spoke up. “No need, sir. Watson has already made himself home in the Swamp. Helped him move in myself while Hawkeye showed him our inventory system in the medical supply hut.”

“Is that so? Well, the Swamp is not Buckingham Palace, Watson, but they do a changing of the mice daily. So long as you’re okay with that arrangement.” Potter turned to Watson.

“Yes, sir. The Swamp will be fine.”

“And what did you think of medical supply? Anything you would have done differently?” Potter asked.

Hawkeye nearly choked on the Scotch he had helped himself to. Watson looked in his direction, his eyes dancing in amusement. “Quite impressed, sir. And may I add, it’s been a long time since I’ve had such a warm reception.”

“Alright then.” Potter continued “I-Corps has sent word down 14th Regiment is making a big push up hill 429. We should expect to see casualties by 0900 tomorrow. I suggest everyone get a big supper and hit the hay early tonight. This is going to be a big one. Depending on the barrage, we’ll start shifts about 8 hours in, but I want everyone at the ready to start. Hawkeye, BJ, whatever you two yahoos have planned for Captain Watson tonight, cancel it.”

“Awwww...you’re no fun, Dad.” Hawkeye whined.

“I know. I know. We’ll try to get up a poker game before our guest leaves. Let’s just try to keep some boys alive first, shall we.” Potter’s voice softened. “Klinger, you work with the nursing staff to get supplies and the OR ready. Pierce, Hunnicutt, Watson, I’ve got an evac bus coming in a half hour. Let’s go through Post Op and see who we can get on it.”

“And what shall I do, Colonel Potter?” Mulcahy piped up. Hawkeye heard him whisper under his breath “Please don’t just say ‘pray.’”

“Colonel, I could use the Father’s help gathering personal effects for the men we evac.” Hawkeye offered. He watched relief and gratitude settle around Mulcahy’s eyes.

“Very well, Padre. You’re with Pierce. Dismissed.”

Of the 10 occupied beds, the doctors were able to evac 8 men. Klinger and Igor helped them move four extra cots in to Post Op. It was standing room only, but that left the hospital ready to receive new patients once the wounded began arriving.

“Mitchell, give me an update on these last two in the morning.” BJ asked the nurse on duty while completing his last chart. “Maybe we can get them shipped out on the next available bus tomorrow.”

“Who’s ready for supper?” Hawkeye glanced at Mulcahy, Watson, and BJ.

“I’m ready to take advantage of your hot showers. But save me a plate.” Watson walked off to the Swamp for his shower kit.

BJ followed. “I ate earlier. I’m going to grab a shower too while we have the chance.”

“Looks like it’s just you and me, Father. Thanks for your help this evening.” Hawkeye draped his arm over the Father’s shoulder. “Join me for a fresh brown salad and some green spam? I'm buying.”

“Well, if you put it that way, how could I resist. I did hear promise of rice pudding. It’s the closest thing I can get here in Korea to my sister Katherine’s barley pudding. Say, Hawkeye, did I ever tell you about her crabapple pie?”

Hawkeye had heard about sister Katherine’s crabapple pie and its flaky crust numerous times. If it meant spending time one on one with Mulcahy, though, he’d hear it a hundred more. “No, Father. I don’t think you ever have.”

*****

_Attention, Attention! All personnel. Incoming wounded. Upper and lower pads and the compound. Drop your flasks and grab your masks._

The mess table full of senior officers sipping coffee and pushing powdered eggs around the tray breathed out a collective, demoralized sigh. “Damn.” Potter exclaimed. “Just once I’d like I-Corps to be wrong on something that mattered. Okay, folks. Like the man said...” He turned to Margaret. “Major, let's have one shift of nurses treat the minor wounds and see if we can get those boys sent out to Seoul ASAP. We'll need the beds.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Pierce, you and Watson take triage on the helipads. Hunnicutt, you're with me in the compound.”

Once initial patients were triaged the doctors stood silently in the changing room at the sinks. Hawkeye dried his hands and turned to the white scrubs placed on the bench for him. “In to battle, then.” He muttered grimly before stripping off his green t-shirt.

“Off with the green clothes. On with the white clothes.” Watson added. Where Hawkeye looked defeated, adrenaline coursed through Watson. Gleeful was far from accurate, but the shift from the calm at the eye of the storm to full on deluge hopped up Watson like no drug could.

At the other side of the changing room, Father Mulcahy kissed his purple stole before setting it and his Eucharist kit aside to scrub. “Four last rites already.” He all but whispered. Only Hawkeye seemed to catch the statement. While his breath hitched at Mulcahy’s sadness, he pulled on his mask and stood.

“Watson, you’ve got the table next to Potter. When was the last time you were in surgery?” Hawkeye asked.

“Last time I was here.”

“Right. Margaret can assist you for the first shift while you’re learning your way around again. I’m starting you out with that stomach wound you triaged on the upper chopper. Ask if you need help. Beej...”

“I’m taking a chest wound with Bigelow.” BJ turned to Mulcahy. “He’s going to need your help too, Father, once you've scrubbed.”

Hawkeye held the double doors open for Watson after the other two doctors and Margaret went through, “After you, my dear Schweitzer.” 

The stomach wound on his own table belonged to a private who looked like he hadn’t even started shaving yet. Hawkeye looked at the gaping hole in the kid’s gut, then back at the kid’s face. “Don't worry about a thing.” Hawkeye quipped. “When I was in med school I was always first in my class. Of course, I lived right next door,” and made a motion to the gas passer to put the kid under.

The first few minutes the OR filled with the sound of instruments clanking, shuffling feet, doctors ordering medical supplies and the distant rumble of mortar blasts and squealing brakes. “No iron deficiency in this kid. I'm beginning to think my MD stands for Metal Detector.” Hawkeye announced, attempting to break the silence and tension.

“Mmm...” Potter mused. “Pretty sure my kid knows what a skeet shoot feels like from the skeet's point of view. How’s it going over there, Watson?” 

“Fine. Fine. Retractor.” was the clipped reply.

Hawkeye glanced up at Margaret who nodded her reassurance.

“How’s he doing, BJ?” Mulcahy asked, motioning to BJ’s patient. BJ had been working with Mulcahy lingering close whispering prayers and anointing the boy’s forehead. He brushed against Hawkeye’s back as he shifted position to move through the room. Even under the strain of surgery and the constant silent check on the other doctors in the room, Hawkeye felt a warm tingle as their bodies connected briefly. It didn’t matter to him that less than 24 hours earlier he and Watson had found relief and release in each other; the base need in Hawkeye’s brain wanted to reach for some part of Mulcahy’s body seeking more contact. Any intentional contact.

“I think he’s going to make it thanks to you, Father.” BJ said.

Ever humble, Mulcahy responded, “Oh, no, my son. Thanks to...” Hawkeye just caught the sight of Mulcahy lifting his eyes upward. He blew out a shaky breath. That humbleness in the Father was the one of the things Hawkeye found most attractive and most infuriating at the same time.

“Okay, I think we got all the fragments. Let’s close him up. 3-0 silk.” Hawkeye reached for the silk and another quip to ease the anxiety in his own chest more than anything. “The only tricky part was remembering if the appendix was on the right or the left.” And after a few minutes, he snapped off his gloves. “Next!”

“You're fast today, Hawk. Using a sewing machine?” BJ observed lightly. 

“This kid was a good boy. He slept through the whole thing.” Hawkeye shot back.

“You fellows always kid around like this when you’re digging through a bloke’s gut for shrapnel?” Watson asked.

“Don’t mind them, Watson. They’re just blowing off a little steam.” Potter said glancing over his glasses. “We all go about it differently.”

“Ah. Right, then.”

Hawkeye couldn’t resist the opportunity. His eyes twinkled with mischief as he asked, “How do you blow off steam, Watson?”

“Well, boxing...”

“He’s an excellent boxer, Colonel. I can vouch for that.” Mulcahy piped up. 

“Oi, but you still won the bout. My jaw can vouch for that!” Watson laughed, relaxing into the thin stratosphere of levity that hovered above the solemnity of the atmosphere below. “And did I hear tell of a poker game later in the week? Major Sholto and I play a mean game of cribbage, but I’d love to get in on a round or two of poker.”

“We can certainly arrange that before week’s end.” Potter exclaimed.

The next several hours passed with wounded patients being treated quickly enough Hawkeye joked about installing a revolving door. “Another satisfied customer at Pierce's body and femur shop.” He said snapping off another pair of gloves. “Klinger, I need 5 minutes, then bring me in the next kid in line.”

Klinger saluted then turned to Potter. “Sir, we’ve got most of the the minor cases treated but we’ve run out of transport to evac them to Seoul.”

“How can we be out of transport?” Potter thundered. “They keep bringing us banged up kids, can’t they spare a few buses to take them away?”

“No, sir. Last bus that came in turned over up the road headed back to the front. The one before that brought in extra kids that were on a bus hit with a mortar blast.”

“Great Caesar’s Ghost!” His voice caused Watson to jump. “Alright, get on the horn and see if the 8063rd can spare an ambulance to evac these boys.”

“Colonel Potter, we might be able to call up a British unit. Ours is cooling off not far from here in Dobong-Gu.” Watson offered. At Potter’s nod Watson ordered, “Call Major Sholto. Margaret, if you can close here, it might be best for me to talk to him.”

“Yes, yes, Major.” Watson found himself saying 2 minutes later. “They’re working me over well here, especially that Pierce fellow.” He grinned to himself. Having reassured Sholto he’d made it to the 4077 safely, he was quite pleased at his innuendo. “We’ve got to get some of these boys out of here, though. Think you could send Murray up with an ambulance to evac these kids to Seoul?” A pause. “Great. Ta, James.” Another pause. “Honestly....No. No. You’re absolutely right. It’s bad for morale to use your first name. I forgot myself momentarily. Got to get back to surgery.” Watson sighed in frustration as he settled the receiver back in the cradle.

Another hour in Watson heard the ambulance breaks squeal in the compound and saw Murray’s face appear in the window between O.R. and pre-op. He was working on a delicate chest case on a corporal. He could only offer a small grin as greeting behind his mask. The axillary artery suddenly sprang a leak shooting blood in a wide arch toward his face. “Clamp! Clamp!” He yelled. “Little help here, Hawk!”

“I'm trying to sew my glove into this patient.” Hawkeye answered. “Beej!”

“I’ve got it, Doctor.” Kellye who had been restocking sterilized instruments rushed in to hold the clamp so Margaret could flush Watson’s eyes.

“Okay, let’s get back in there, Major.” He pushed the towel aside once his eyes were clear. “Kellye keep hold of that clamp and keep an eye on his pulse. Margaret, I’m going to need to stitch fast. We can't keep that artery clamped off for long. Let’s use 4-0 silk for this.”

Once Watson, Margaret, and Kellye finished up the boy, Margaret ordered, “Kellye, take Captain Watson to the scrub room and help him clean up.” 

“I'm fine.” He protested.

“Captain, you have someone else's blood dripping down the side of your face. I can't allow you to continue until you're cleaned up.” Margaret insisted. Then added, “Think he’ll make it?”

“If he doesn’t, I’ll eat my own shorts.” He tried to smile as Kellye took his arm to lead him out of the OR.

“That was some fancy work,” Hawkeye added, stopping Klinger and Igor to inspect the kid as they wheeled him past. “I couldn’t have done a better job.”

“I aim to please.” Watson met Hawk’s blue eyes.

*****

“Need some help with that?” Hawkeye stood in the doorway of the showers. Watson gripped his cock with one hand and the edge of the wooden partition with the other. Water and soap dripped off his skin. He was due back in OR 15 minutes.

“Jesus, you weren't supposed to be relieved until I got back.” He turned to rinse himself under the stream. 

“Potter let me off early for good behavior.” Hawkeye slipped off his red bathrobe. He stepped into the stall with Watson and eyed the hard cock between them. “Let me. You said you wanted to put my mouth to use.”

“Here?”

“Well, it's not the most private place in camp, but right now everyone is either in surgery, in bed, or dead.” A warm insistent hand trailed down John's wet chest and over his taut stomach.

At the lick of his lips and the slight nod Hawkeye wasted no time dropping to his knees, nor in sucking John into his mouth. There didn’t seem much use in teasing foreplay or fancy technique at this point. John’s cock was throbbing hard. His balls were tight against Hawkeye’s chin when he hollowed his cheeks to bury his face in the dark patch of hair at John’s groin. He opened his throat and swallowed allowing the length to slide down easily before pulling back again.

“Bloody hell.” John said sharply above him. Wet fingers with short dull nails clawed to find hold in Hawkeye’s dark hair. Hawkeye shuddered at sensation and gave up control to the pace John set by pulling Hawkeye in again. Hawkeye held the tense muscles of John’s ass, occasionally letting his hands wander down soap slick thighs or up his tight back.

Lust filled bright blue eyes met grey green. The moan in the back of Hawk’s throat vibrated through John’s core causing him to jerk forward harshly. “Almost there...” He whispered, forcing his cock down Hawkeye’s throat again. He held himself there 2 beats longer than before, pulled Hawkeye back, then forced him down again. One final thrust and John came, muffling his shout in his shoulder. Hawkeye swallowed and swallowed until John stopped shuddering above him.

“Much better way to blow off steam then poker or boxing.” John gasped. He supported his weight between Hawkeye still kneeling before him and the shower partition behind him.

Following that week, Hawkeye and Watson found themselves seeking out the other's company when they could. Watson slipped away under the guise of acquiring supplies. Hawkeye met up with him in a seedy geisha house in Seoul on the day he was allotted for a haircut and shopping for personal supplies. Another time Watson was able to stay overnight after visiting a kid from his unit who’d lost a leg and would be sent to the British Commonwealth hospital in Kure, Japan the next day. 

On that particular night, John was the aggressor, covering Hawkeye's longer leaner body with his, biting down on the tender flesh of a collarbone until Hawkeye had to shower alone for a week. John thrust into Hawkeye long after they were both over-sensitive. But in the moment Hawk merely wrapped his legs around John tighter and let him take what he needed. It wasn't as though Hawk hadn't done the same.

Later John toyed with Hawkeye's dog tags while they lay together in the dark supply hut. “Say, Hawk, what is this we're doing?” Hips made short involuntary thrusts into the slick mess he'd left on Hawkeye's backside. Neither of them would be ready to go again for a long while, but the hint of friction was something John couldn't stop chasing.

“Listen, John, if I wanted to talk about feelings, I'd have another go at Houlihan.” Hawkeye exclaimed more defensive than intended.

“You got a leg over with Margaret?”

“A while back. We were pinned down behind enemy lines overnight. Long story.” Hawkeye turned. “Look, we got a good thing going here, but pining over one person I'll never have is bad enough. I can't go pining for another. Once this war is over we’ll be half a world apart. Simple as that.”

John grinned, “So if I find some someone to keep my bed warm on R&R next week...”

“Then I want to hear all the delicious details next time we meet.” Hawkeye giggled giddily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on my research, the British Commonwealth did not send medical troops or ambulances to Korea, so this fiction is not historically accurate. However in keeping with the M*A*S*H universe of historical and continuity inconsistencies, I've opted to keep in the bit about Bill Murray driving a British Army ambulance to the 4077 in as written.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of a trope and angsty. I regret nothing.
> 
> Inspired in part by this beautiful Hawkachy fan art by lily-fox http://lily-fox.deviantart.com/art/Perennials-and-parsons-61163475

The music coming from the jukebox seemed too slow. Kellye spoke to him, but he couldn’t quite make out the words. He looked at the martini in his hand. Was it his seventh? Eighth? He tossed the remainder of it back. _Yes_ , Hawkeye reasoned to himself, _I’m drunk_. He wasn’t so drunk he wouldn’t remember tonight later, but he knew he was drunk enough standing at this very minute would be disastrous. He leaned his head against the wall of the Officer’s Club and the brim of a hat pushed over his eyes. A hat? Sure enough, he wore Father Mulcahy’s Panama hat. Ah yes; he’d swiped it off Mulcahy’s head an hour ago in a moment of what Mulcahy would call “jocularity.”

March 1953 saw the entire camp tense and strained, especially for those like Hawkeye, Mulcahy, Houlihan, and Klinger who had been here since the beginning. Visits from Watson had slowed the last couple months to not much more than a hasty ride in an ambulance with a kid bleeding out on him the entire trip. Other times there might be a brief stop with his entire unit for chow as they made their way from one unclaimed piece of land to another along the ever-changing front lines.

On the last time Watson and Hawkeye had been able to steal an hour of private time together, Watson had slipped out of the supply hut first. Hawkeye followed moments later, only to see Mulcahy standing near his boxing ring across the footpath. Mulcahy met his eyes for a long moment in what Hawkeye could only read as disappointment.

“Hawkeye, are you okay?” Kellye asked.

He sat up and focused on her face. “Yeah, just don't ask me to dance anytime soon.”

“Can I get you anything?” She looked worried. Maybe he was drunker than he thought.

“Another martini would be great.”

“I don’t think so, sir. How about a cup of coffee instead?” Hawkeye didn’t want a cup of coffee. He wanted to sit in his corner table with the company of a certain priest who was currently chatting with Klinger at the bar. Short of that he wanted to drink himself to oblivion.

“Yeah, sure.”

Kellye brought him coffee, which remained untouched. “Any news from Captain Watson lately?” She asked quietly. He shook his head.

“Well, I’m sure he’s okay, sir.” Kellye touched his hand before moving away to dance with an enlisted man whose name Hawkeye didn’t know. He leaned his head against the wall again and let the Panama slide over his face. The last thing he thought before drifting off to sleep was when did he begin not recognizing everyone in camp.

A small shake woke him. How much later he wasn’t sure. “Hawkeye? Hawk?” Father Mulcahy’s voice was soft and low in his ear. “I’m going to call it a night. Could I walk you to the Swamp?”

He removed the hat from his eyes and met Mulcahy’s. “Mmmm...sure, Father. You going to stay with me?”

“Come on. Let’s get you home.” Mulcahy ignored the comment.

Once on his feet, Hawkeye placed the hat back on Mulcahy’s head. “Looks much better on you than me.” The OC was nearly empty. Mulcahy slipped his arm around Hawkeye's waist to lead him out the door. Most of the effects of the alcohol had worn off, but Hawkeye decided he'd be foolish not to enjoy the warmth of Mulcahy's body against his.

At the rush of chilled air when Mulcahy pushed the door open, Hawkeye began singing. _“Button up your overcoat, when the wind is free. Take good care of yourself; you belong to me._ Sing with me, Father. It's our song.”

“Not tonight.”

Hawkeye shrugged and continued to hum. They walked through the door to an equally empty compound. “You know, Father, in this light....” 

“Don’t, Hawkeye.” 

“What? I’m just saying....”

“You’re flirting. With a priest. It’s most unseemly.”

“Why, Father, I didn’t know you knew what flirting even was.” He smirked and flashed his eyes. At that moment Hawkeye’s feet decided not to cooperate and he tripped over his perpetually untied boots, pulling Mulcahy with him. The pair landed on a packing crate outside the hospital with Hawkeye’s hand on Mulcahy’s knee. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes. Please move your hand.” Mulcahy was thin lipped and visibly irritated.

“I could move it up.” Another smirk.

“Hawkeye! Enough! You’re drunk!” He lowered his voice to a rough whisper “It’s bad enough you flirt with everyone else in camp while you’re...you're...in a relationship with Captain Watson. I’ll not be treated in such a disrespectful manner!”

Hawkeye looked as though he’d been slapped. He almost wished he’d had. It would have been preferable to Mulcahy’s anger. He held Mulcahy’s fiery gaze in his and, although his brain screamed at him to stop, he leaned in, not exactly sure what he intended. 

To his surprise, Mulcahy leaned in as well. When their lips met, Hawkeye did move his hand up - up Mulcahy's leg and to the warm crease between muscular thigh and groin. He was rewarded with soft groan and a tongue slipping between his lips, searching more contact. Hawkeye swallowed his own groan as he ran his other hand up Mulcahy’s shoulder, his throat, the back of his head. Threading fingers through his hair, pulling him in, claiming him. His hair was so soft, Hawkeye thought he could die a happy man if he could spend just one night with that head using his bare chest as a pillow. Mulcahy's hand found its way to Hawkeye’s chest and short trembling fingers gripped the front of his jacket. Their tongues tussled with each other in Hawkeye’s mouth.

Before Hawkeye attempted moving the hand resting near Mulcahy’s groin to stroke the hardness growing there, gravel crunched under a pair of combat boots nearby. Father Mulcahy all but pushed Hawkeye off the crate in his effort to separate them. Igor, on guard duty, walked by too late to notice anything out of the ordinary. “Come on, Hawk. I’ll get you to the Swamp.”

*****

Father Mulcahy sat alone in the Mess Tent the next morning, still in his vestments from worship service, his head between his hands, when Hawkeye walked in. “Buy you a cup of coffee, Father?” He asked.

Mulcahy shook his head slightly, refusing to look up. “Listen, Father,” Hawkeye sat across from him uninvited. “About last night...”

“I prefer we not talk about last night.” He mumbled into his hands.

“Well, I prefer we do. And after I’ve said my peace, if you’d rather, I’ll not bring it up again.” Hawkeye bit back the desire to snap. “I know you think I did what I did because I was drunk. The fact of the matter could not be further from the truth. What transpired last night was because I let my guard down. Because I'm tired and afraid and because I’ve been attracted to you since practically the first day we both stepped foot in this cesspool. Sure I've flirted with you, but for the most part I’ve tried to respect that your vows mean you're off limits.

“And let me tell you about John Watson, too, since half the camp thinks we’re an item. John is a good friend. What we do in the privacy of the supply tent, though, has nothing to do with friendship. What happens in those moments has everything to do with escaping the frustration and loneliness of this hell we've been to which we've been dammed if even for a couple hours. It's a way for us to avoid linking arms and walking into a moving chopper blade.”

Hawkeye reached across the table and tipped up Mulcahy’s chin with a gentle finger. Watery pale blue eyes met Hawkeye’s gaze. “Francis,” Mulcahy's eyes flickered at the rare use of his given name. “I am a ridiculous man, redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship. If that one kiss is the only moment of intimacy we ever share, then it will have made spending the last three years in Korea worthwhile. But if I made you feel uncomfortable or disrespected in any way, I am truly sorry.”

“Hawkeye...I - I value your friendship too...”

Hawkeye winced. “Don't, Father. Don't say it.”

“You don't know what I...”

“Oh, but I do. There are only two ways this conversation can go and they both end in rejection. Either you value my friendship, but you don't have feelings for me. Or you do have feelings for me, but you've taken a vow of celibacy and can't ever act of those feelings. Either way, Father, I can bear to hear it.” Hawkeye disentangled himself from the bench and walked out.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic depiction of war related violence and injuries.

A week passed. Then two. Then three. Each time Hawkeye thought Mulcahy might approach him to talk, he seemed to change his mind. Hawkeye was as good as his word and kept conversation with Mulcahy to business or intentionally light. As though the Chinese felt a political shift or a second wind from South Korea, fighting seemed to increase, keeping them all busier than usual. Hawkeye lost track of days between OR sessions. Without warning it was suddenly the middle of April. Most of the camp was taking a short break from the maelstrom of war and enjoying the first warm snap of spring by sunning themselves or enjoying their morning coffee al fresco.

_“Attention, attention! All personnel! Incoming wounded on the upper and lower chopper pads! Back to work, folks!”_

An ambulance skidded to a halt in front of Hawkeye and Margaret as they made their way across the compound to the lower helipad. “Not more.” Margaret whispered. “Baker, upper pad with Hunnicutt. Kellye, you and Winchester take the lower pad. Pierce and I will start triage on the ambulance.”

Hawkeye swung into the ambulance as Margaret finished barking orders. “Well, Corporeal Murray. Long time. No see.” Hawkeye’s grin faded as he took in Murray's ashen face. He stood near a patient and was covered in blood. “You okay, buddy?”

“Sir,” he said tightly, “its Watson.” 

“Margaret, get Murray to Pre-Op and check him over.” Hawkeye moved to usher Murray off the bus. 

“No! Sir! It's Watson...here.” Murray shifted so Hawkeye could see the man on the stretcher in front of him. Murray held pressure on field dressing on the wounded man’s shoulder. The field dressing and most of his uniform was soaked through. “I kept pressure on it the whole way like that chest wound up at the aid station a year ago.”

“Captain _John_ Watson?” Hawk thought his knees might go out from him.

“Shot, sir. In the shoulder. It's hard to tell but it might have gotten his subclavian artery. There - there's a lot of blood.”

Doctor mode. Hawkeye knew he had to switch back to it fast. “Okay, let me take over pressure. Father!” Hawkeye yelled out the ambulance window to the first available person he saw. “Get Murray inside. And look him over to see if he's injured.”

As Mulcahy helped Murray off the bus, Watson groaned “Oh God, please let me live.”

“Don't worry, John. Living is our specialty.” Hawkeye tried to joke. “Margaret, get Winchester off the helipad and tell him to scrub stat. You’ll assist.”

John made a noise that sounded more like a grunt than any discernible word and waved his hand weakly in Hawkeye's direction. “No way, pal. You want to live, Winchester does the surgery. I told you once he may be a pompous windbag, but he's the best in Korea.” Upon seeing the look of sheer terror in John’s eyes, Hawkeye added, “I'll give him a hand if it comes to that, but this is one time you're better in Winchester’s hands than mine.”

Margaret yelled “Corpsman!” over her shoulder and scurried off to find Winchester. Hawkeye continued pressure on John's shoulder as Igor and Klinger moved the litter off the ambulance.

He wished he hadn't sent Margaret in to scrub. The idea of triage now was almost more than he could stomach. He wanted to scream at the man moaning with shrapnel in his leg who insisted he might die. The cacophony of the unit moving through motions of triage roared in his ears. The solid floor of the ambulance under his feet twisted and tilted. After the second man was pulled from the ambulance, Hawkeye found Mulcahy's hand on his arm. “It's alright, my son. Go scrub. BJ can triage the rest of these boys.” Mulcahy's voice was a point of calm in a turbulent sea of fear and emotion. Hawkeye felt himself rowing madly toward the sound.

When his feet refused to move, Mulcahy steered Hawkeye toward the scrub room and stripped off his blue Hawaiian shirt. “Here you go, Hawkeye.” He murmured, turning on the water and guiding Hawkeye's hands into the stream. 

The warm water seemed to shake Hawkeye out of his stupor. “Yes, yes. Thank you, Father. What's the word on Murray?”

“In shock and in need of a shower, but he's not wounded. I sent him to Post-Op to rest.”

Hawkeye turned to look Mulcahy in the eyes. “Father - I...”

“It's okay, Hawkeye. Potter has a stomach wound on your table. Get yourself dressed.” A stomach wound. He could do those in his sleep. Shrapnel in the colon. Possibly a small resection. Ninety-five percent survivability. Not like Winchester's shoulder wound so close to the heart. Yes, call it what it was for now. Not his friend. A shoulder wound. Put a face to the injury later. In Post-Op. He could do this.

Murray stood outside the O.R. doors peering through the window. One of the nurses went to pull the curtain, but Hawkeye waved her away. As he stepped up to his table, he searched the O.R. for a calm face he knew would get him through the next two hours. All the nurses were top notch, but Kellye...she understood. “Kellye, you're with me.”

A deep breath. “Scalpel.” The O.R. was too silent. Mulcahy stopped to pray over a boy here and there. Instruments clanged on metal trays. Doctors or nurses gave orders.

“Alright over there, Hawk?” BJ asked.

“Oh, I'm fine. Just suturing an artery. Sort of like reupholstering a 38 Chevy, right Charles? Three-O silk.”

Potter looked up from his table. “Pierce, before Winchester tells me to tell you to can it, can it.” 

“It's quite alright, Colonel. Perhaps some, ah, levity is in order today.” Charles didn't look up but there was a hint of empathy in his voice.

Hawkeye breathed a sigh. “How's it going, Charles?”

“Suction. And adjust the light. Yes, right there.” He did glance up this time. “The bullet made a clean exit wound. It did perforate the subclavian artery, but I believe I can suture it without having to perform a resection. I daresay Corporeal Murray saved Watson's life.”

An hour later Watson was moved to Post-Op, and Hawkeye gave Murray a thumbs up through the window. “Klinger, show Murray to the showers now, will ya? He's a mess. And radio Major James Sholto British Army, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Tell him Captain Watson is out of surgery and expected to survive.” Tell him he's a damned fool if he lets that man go. Hawkeye thought.

After their session, Hawkeye found a showered Murray dressed in a spare US Army uniform asleep in a chair by Watson's bunk. He shook Murray gently. “You looking to defect?” He teased. “Come on. Let's get a cup of coffee.”

Murray yawned. “I guess I could do for a cuppa. He going to be okay, Captain?”

“Thanks to you. Winchester said you saved his life. He lost a lot of blood. Three pints worth. He’s more red blooded American than I am now.” Hawkeye grinned for Murray's sake.

Murray fixed a tray of something that looked suspiciously like liver and onions while Hawkeye poured coffee for them both. 

“Watson was kneeling over a wounded man. This kid, he was shot up pretty bad, and Watson yelled for me to bring him field dressings and morphine. Sholto was just in front of us ordering the unit up the hill.” Murray started talking around bites of food. Hawkeye didn't want to hear, but he knew Murray needed to tell the story.

A Chinese platoon flanked us. This soldier came out of the bushes soon as Sholto and the rest of the unit were clear. He walked up to Watson gun aimed to kill.” Murray took a sip of coffee. “Watson must have thought it was me because he looked up and reached out his hand to the guy. He wasn't more than 5 meters away. I - I was too far away to do anything and my hands were full of supplies. Oh, God....”

“It's okay, kid.”

“I called out and Watson twisted toward me just as the Chinese fired. He went down so fast, but it was like watching it all in the movies, you know? Sholto must have heard me yell or the shot or something because there he was with two of our men covering me while I dragged Watson away. The - the other guy - the one Watson was working on - he didn't make it.”

“I thought they weren't supposed to shoot at us medics, but those guys didn't care.” Murray was silent for a long moment. “Well, I've got to find a ride back to the unit.”

Hawkeye reached across the table and caught his wrist. “Sorry. Your doctor hasn't discharged you yet.”

At Murray's protest, Hawkeye continued, looking at him pointedly. “You've been admitted for dehydration. Hard to get fresh water on the front. Or so I've been told. Post Op is full, though. Hope you don't mind we set up temporary overflow in the Swamp. You should be good to go a couple hours after Watson has woken up in the morning. In the meantime, kid, how about something stronger than this dishwater Igor passes off as coffee. We make a homemade gin that'll melt your dog tags.” Hawkeye looked over at Murray with the same affection he used to save for Radar. He could see why Watson was fond of the kid.

“Say,” he asked on the short trip to the Swamp, “You were right about the subclavian artery. How'd you know?” 

Murray gave him an odd look. “Didn't Watson ever tell you? I’m studying to be a doctor. He's been helping me study on our off time.”

*****

Kellye heard the soft noise of a man in pain waking up coming from Watson's bed. She hurried to sit beside him. It was close to 0200. No other patients were awake and Captain Hunnicutt had slipped out to catch a few hours sleep back at the Swamp. “I must be alive.” He groaned, “I'm in too much pain.”

“Yes, sir.” She spoke quietly. “Do you remember where you are?”

After a short silence, Watson glanced around and whispered, “The four-O double natural. Looks different from this perspective. Murray?”

“Corporal Murray is fine. Not a scratch. We'll send for him in the morning.” She offered. “He’s spending the night in the Swamp.”

“And the other kid?”

“Everyone who came in on the same bus made it.”

“No. No. The kid I was working on when I got hit.” He demanded.

“I'm sorry, sir. I don't know if he was on the bus. We can check with Captain Pierce later.” At Watson's obvious wince in pain, “Do you need more morphine? Captain Hunnicutt said you could have some when you woke.” Her voice was soft and soothing and Watson was glad Kellye was the nurse on duty when he came to. The two had often held conversation during Watson's longer visits to the 4077 the past year. 

“Not yet. Just sit with me a bit, yeah? Any letters from Kalea lately?” Talking hurt more than he cared to admit.

“One last week. The mangoes are coming in. She says she's saving one for me.” Kellye laughed. “She knows how I love them. We have a tree in our yard, you know.”

“Not something we get in London too often - mangoes. But I look forward to a good cup of tea again.” He tried to grin.

“You’ll get that soon, sir. Depending on when you’re stable enough to move, you should see London in less than a month. Won’t that be nice?” Kellye patted his right hand.

Pain from his shoulder spread through his body and seemed to settle in his knee. “Say, Kellye, I will take you up on that morphine now. And when one of the doctors comes by in the morning, have him check out this right knee? I've got a sudden shooting pain there.”

*****

The relief to see his friend - his brother - Captain Watson alive and well and awake spread across Murray’s face. Hawkeye remembered what it was like to lose a close friend to this war and he was grateful Murray didn’t have to experience it. He skimmed Watson’s chart with Winchester while Murray and Watson said their good-byes. “Kellye said the pain in his knee seemed to come on suddenly. We were so busy with the shoulder, do you think we missed something in his legs? Or nerve damage from the gunshot, perhaps?”

“There is no nerve damage from the gunshot wound. Of that I can be certain.” Winchester responded. “I did not think to examine his legs. Murray said he was kneeling when he was shot?”

“Yes, crouching over a patient.”

“I wonder if he was forced backward into an unsavory position.” mused Winchester. “I’ll examine him further momentarily.”

Hawkeye hung back until Klinger and Murray left in a Jeep back to the British Army unit and Winchester had opportunity to examine Watson's leg. “Ready for your daily dose of sarcasm?” He approached Watson's bed.

A weak smile lit Watson’s tired eyes briefly. “Only a small dose, I'm afraid, Doctor. Morphine and chatting is catching up to me. Say, thanks for holding Murray here til morning.”

“Awwwww, shucks, tweren't nothing.” Hawkeye sat in the nearby chair. “Figured the kid had a right to say goodbye. The gunshot wound in your shoulder earned you a ticket home, ya know.”

A shadow crossed Watson's face, but cleared his throat and asked, “So any news on the knee?”

“Doesn't seem to be nerve damage or sprained. Unless it gets worse, Winchester’s going to have the folks in Kure take a look at it when we evac you. They can do a CT scan there.” He watched Watson's eyes close in pain. “Listen, I'm going to let you get some rest. I'm on duty this evening; we can talk more then.”

“Ta, Hawkeye.” Watson murmured groggily.

*****

John Watson watched as kids with lesser wounds were evac’d to Japan or sent back to their unit. He spent three days in and out of a morphine induced haze, fighting pain but unable to control it in either his shoulder or his knee. Damn his knee! 

Most of the kids in Post-Op were from his unit. They had kept a watchful eye on their unit doctor, saving portions of their supper for him when he slept through the meal and playing cards with him when he was awake enough to enjoy their company. Mail for Watson arrived on day two, including a batch of treacle toffee from his sister, which he generously shared with all the patients and hospital staff. “Eat up, boys,” he tried to joke, “this'll be the last of Harriet's toffee for you lot.” He tucked a bit aside for Hawkeye and Kellye.

“Up for a stroll through the minefield?” Hawkeye appeared with a wheelchair and a cup of coffee the fourth afternoon. Watson was sitting up attempting a letter to Harriet.

“Missed you yesterday.” Watson took a cup of coffee from Hawkeye’s hands. “I have toffee.”

“Every time I got a chance to visit you were asleep. Good to see your baby blues this time.” Hawkeye flirted. 

Watson handed over a piece of toffee he’d retrieved from the packing crate turned bedside table. “I think I’m finally shaking this morphine haze.” A long sip of coffee. “We should ship this stuff to the front lines. If the Chinese were forced to drink it, they’d sign the peace treaty out of self preservation.”

Hawkeye hummed his response, taking a bite of toffee before helping Watson move from the bed to the wheelchair. “Say, Hawk, Mulcahy’s been lingering quite a bit lately.” Watson said softly, making a small nod in the direction of the nurse’s desk in the far corner of Post Op where Mulcahy was pretending to look over a soldier's records for inventory. “He stops by to speak now and again, but mostly he...lingers.”

“Ah, yeah, that. It seems I made a move on a certain married one a few weeks back. Things have been uncomfortable since.” Hawkeye tucked a blanket behind Watson in case they needed it before returning from their walk. “Let’s get through the compound first, shall we?”

Once out on the dusty road leading toward the minefield and the upper chopper pad, Hawkeye launched into the story of kissing Mulcahy. “He seems to believe I was drunk.”

“Jesus, Hawkeye.” Watson muttered when Hawkeye took a breath. He was sitting on a dry patch of grass near Watson’s feet.

“Okay, okay, okay. Maybe I was a little drunk.” He ran a hand through his hair. “He tried to let me down gently the next day, but I wouldn’t give him the chance. I just ranted at him a while and stormed off. Frankly, I’m not sure what’s worse. Rejection or not knowing. He’s hovering because he thinks you and I are...together.”

They sat a moment observing the dull hum of activity in the compound below. Figures came and went. BJ’s crazy straw hat with BJ attached came into view bobbing along from the Swamp to the mess tent. A woman’s voice - Hawkeye was sure it was Margaret’s - called out an order. “So...Sholto?” Hawkeye asked.

Watson shook his head. “I haven’t...” He sniffed in frustration. “Every time I even try to bring up how I feel, he shuts me down. We were pinned down in a foxhole a week or so back. He let me call him James without reproach. I thought...maybe. But then a shell hit our radioman, and it was back to work. Back to ‘Major Sholto, sir!’” Watson sat straighter in the wheelchair and attempted a mock salute. His left hand began to shake slightly against his thigh. “Think you ought to get me back, Hawk. This shoulder...”

The next afternoon, the now empty Post Op saw a sudden flurry of activity. “Say, Kellye,” Watson called from his bed. “What’s going on?” 

“We’re expecting wounded in a few hours, sir. Major Houlihan wants OR and Post Op ready for the push.” Kellye explained. “That reminds me. Captain Pierce wants to move you to the VIP tent now that everyone else from your unit has been discharged. He thought you’d be more comfortable there. We’ve set a nursing schedule to check on you every couple hours in case you need anything. It’s standard courtesy to wounded officers if they are well enough they don’t require 24 hour care, sir.” Kellye assured him. “Klinger has the tent made up for you. I’ll move you myself as soon as we’re done here.”

Watson smiled. “In that case...”

An hour later after a meal sitting in a wheelchair at a table in the mess tent with most of the officers of the 4077, Kellye wheeled Watson to the VIP tent. “Can’t say I missed chipped beef on a shingle, but it certainly was nice to eat at a table again and visit with the doctors.” Watson grinned.

“If you want breakfast in the mess tomorrow, just let me know.” Kellye smiled. “Oh, and a small treat. Klinger was able to barter around for a tin of tea. Shall I bring you some hot water before I go?”

On a table between two cots sat a couple white ceramic Army issue mugs, a pitcher of water, a small tin, a short stack of books, a deck of cards, and a reading lamp. There were assorted medical supplies arranged on the dresser in the corner. Watson spotted bandages, surgical tape, and a bedpan among them. “After dinner tea would be lovely, thanks.”

While Kellye was gone, Hawkeye knocked on the door. “Listen, John, I’m on my way to the to pre-Op for prep. Choppers are due in half an hour. But if you’re a good little boy and follow doctor’s orders, there’s a surprise for you tomorrow evening.” He winked and waggled a finger at Watson.

John blushed and scrubbed the back of his neck. “Uh, Hawk...if it’s all the same with you...I mean...Christ, Hawkeye! The plumbing’s not working again yet, okay?”

Laughter filled the small tent. “John, I’m flattered. Thrilled, even, you’d think I meant that kind of a surprise. And while it’d be nice, I didn’t think you were quite up to it.” He grinned. John wondered briefly if Hawkeye knew how his eyes twinkled bluer than normal when he grinned like that. “No, a different surprise. So long as the war keeps to a dull roar, Sholto’s driving down in the morning with the rest of your gear. Insisted, actually. Your unit is headed north, but Sholto said he wanted to see you personally before they moved out.”

“Well, if that doesn't beat the band.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: The description how John Watson was wounded is heavily inspired by the scene in Sherlock s4e1, _The Abominable Bride_. In quite a bit of research, it’s the only place I’ve found any recent canon descriptions of how he acquired his war injury. There may be some ACD descriptions, but I didn’t go that far back. Nor was I able to find exactly how Bill Murray saved John’s life.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Queen Alexandria's mentioned below is Queen Alexandra’s Military Hospital, London https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Queen_Alexandra%27s_Military_Hospital The Brit folks who helped me figure out which hospital Watson would have been shipped to mentioned either this hospital or more likely Queen Elizabeth in Birmingham. For the flow of the story and length considerations, I decided on Queen Alexandria's.

Kellye changed Watson’s dressing and gave him a much needed sponge bath before bringing him supper in the VIP tent. He’d heard the ambulances pull into the compound shortly after Hawkeye had come in to visit. The lack of visitors while most of the 4077 was in surgery meant he spent much of the day resting alone. Nurse Mitchell had offered to wheel him around the empty compound for a few minutes after lunch, but he’d declined. 

Even with the unrushed day, his energy was fading as quickly as the sun when he heard a quiet, but firm knock on the tent’s wooden door. Before he could answer, Sholto and Hawkeye stood in the doorway together. “I brought you your surprise.” Hawkeye smirked at him. Watson smiled at the two of them side by side. Hawkeye all gangly limbs and boyish charm like a 12 year old stuck in a 35 year old man’s body. And Sholto stoic and stern and proper as though anything else might be considered indecent. He’d watched Hawkeye become tamed by BJ, a more even tempered personality. He wondered if Hawkeye’s rougher nature might relax Sholto into something less rigid. As Sholto shifted his weight, Watson marveled at how he could possibly be attracted to two completely opposite people. Yet he was drawn to them both like a moth to a flame. He was certain one day he’d be burned by the fire.

When Sholto cleared his throat, Watson found himself and saluted. “Major Sholto, sir. You’ll forgive me if I don’t stand.”

“Of course, Watson. It’s...good to see you.” Sholto returned the salute and made a motion that seemed to indicated “at ease.” Hawkeye slipped away closing the door behind him as Watson called out his thanks. 

“Is that Pierce fellow the one who patched you up?” Sholto asked. He unfolded the tent’s only chair and sat near the occupied bed. There was a hint of something behind his voice that resonated as jealousy and disdain. “I’ll be certain to show him my appreciation before I leave.”

“No. No, he insisted Major Winchester do the surgery. Claims he’s the best. Although I’ve seen them both in action, and I must say Pierce is a damn fine surgeon. Has a better bedside manner too.” Watson grinned to himself.

The two men spent several hours playing cards while Sholto filled Watson in on news from the unit and the front. From his pack Sholto retrieved a flask of Scotch at some point, and while Watson was cautious about drink during his recovery, he was grateful for the warm up. The two spent what Watson could only describe as a domestic evening together alone. If the location weren’t an US Army canvas tent somewhere near the 38th parallel in the middle of a war zone, he might have even called it cozy. 

Near half nine, Kellye knocked again for rounds and she checked Watson’s bandage. Sholto excused himself to take a quick shower and shave. Watson was sitting up against the head of the cot flipping through a medical journal following a trip to the privy while Kellye finished restocking supplies when Sholto returned from the showers.

“Captain Pierce said so long as Captain Watson was feeling up to the company, you are welcome to sleep in the extra cot in here, sir.” She informed Sholto. “Otherwise, there’s a spare cot in the doctors’ quarters you may use.”

At Watson’s quick nod, Sholto spoke for him. “Please inform Captain Pierce I’ll be staying with Captain Watson. Thank you.”

“Very well, sir. I’ll inform the next nursing shift Captain Watson won’t need anyone to look in on him tonight.” She smiled to Watson in her quiet, unassuming, reassuring way. “You should be good till morning, then?”

“Yes, yes. Ta, Kellye.” Watson smiled as she left. “Well, I’m pleased for the company...James, but I’m knackered. Do you mind?”

“Not at all, Watson. You’re so brave and quiet I forget you are suffering!” Sholto exclaimed.

Watson lay with his eyes closed and listened to Sholto strip down to his pants and vest and pull back the covers on his own cot. The last thing he thought before sleep claimed him was Sholto’s statement was the closest thing to affection he’d heard Sholto express to him in quite a while.

A squeal of brakes in the compound and a flurry of activity woke Watson the next morning. Sholto’s bed sat empty and neatly made with his pack resting atop it. He heard Hawkeye’s sleep heavy voice calling for a corpsman and Houlihan barking orders to a nurse. From the mess tent wafted the odor of burnt toast and coffee, but it made him hungry nonetheless. Sholto walked through the door while Watson was struggling to sit up and debating whether or not he could walk unaided to the mess tent. He carried a tray of food. Klinger followed closely behind with a second tray of food and a kettle of boiling water for tea. The trays and kettle were settled on the table. Sholto measured out tea from the small tin into both ceramic cups with military precision.

“Pierce said you’d been taking your meals in the mess the last 48 hours, but I thought we might enjoy a more...intimate breakfast before I have to move out.” Sholto poured water into the cups. “Eggs, rashers, toast - albeit slightly burned. No marmalade, unfortunately. Still better than field rations.”

“Thank you. Must you head back so soon?” Sholto helped Watson turn on the bed so he could sit on the edge and use the table properly.

“Mmmm...The Chinese keep advancing. We’ve taken the same hill four times in the last week. If our men held it overnight, we're advancing North upon my return.” He took a bite of eggs. “Pierce told me the plan is to discharge you to Kure on this afternoon’s evac bus. They’ll do a CT on your knee and you should be at Queen Alexandra's by this time next week.”

The hand in Watson’s lap began to tremble. Just slightly, but enough he flexed it a time or two. 

“London inside a week.” He mused. He looked to Sholto and licked his lips. “James, I may never see you again, and before you go, there’s something I should say. Am I wrong in believing you are eccentric like....”

Sholto looked over a fork full of powdered eggs. “Don’t.” He almost whispered. “It wouldn’t do for you to complete that sentence.”

“Honestly.” Watson sniffed before reaching for a sip of tea. “I believe you to be one of my own.”

“Whether that is true or not, I can only guess you intend on expressing some sort of sentiment in our last hour together. Sentiment is a defect found on the losing side.” He set his fork down carefully and leaned back into his chair. “Every day a hundred men, no _boys_ , are under my command. They look to me to make decisions that will keep them safe. I simply cannot allow anything that will put me on the losing side. I can’t afford it.”

Suddenly Watson wanted nothing more than to storm out of the tent. He struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on the cane Kellye had left him the night before. Two steps and he was at the door. “Your leg! John, please!” Sholto exclaimed standing to help.

A quick hand raised in his direction, stopped him. “Sod my leg! Sod my shoulder! Sod the toast and the rashers and the tea and this whole bloody war! You’re not human, James. You’re a machine.” Sweat from the exertion had begun to bead along Watson’s hairline. He clenched and flexed his left fist over and over.

Sholto did rise now, taking a cautious step forward. “Don’t you see? Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.”

Watson turned his head away. The threat of tears, angry and hot, pricked at his eyes. “It’s time for you to go, Major Sholto. Please don’t keep your men waiting on my account.” He opened the door.

Sholto picked up his gear and moved to the open door. “John...” he whispered. But Watson merely straightened best he could and saluted. He didn’t watch Sholto walk to his jeep, nor did he watch it drive away. Once he could no longer hear the hum of the engine or the rattle of the shocks, he stepped into the compound and let the tent door slam behind him. Watson stood blinking in the morning light unsure where he intended to go. 

Halfway across the compound in the direction of the Swamp, he remembered Hawkeye was likely in surgery. Another couple steps toward the camp office he found himself too weak to go on. He stood in the middle of the road between the VIP tent, the office, and the Swamp, sweating and panting and praying he wouldn’t fall over before he could catch his breath. Much to his relief, a pretty dark haired nurse coming out of the mess tent spotted him. “Captain Watson! What are you doing out here?” She slid a supportive arm around his waist.

She was new to the 4077, started just a few days ago, and he couldn’t remember her name. He leaned into her as heavily as he dared. “I’m not sure, Nurse...?”

“Carpenter. Millie Carpenter. We met in Post-Op three days ago.” She smiled.

“Yes, that’s right. I thought I’d get some fresh air, but...”

“Come on, sir. Let’s get you back to the VIP tent before you take a tumble.” She helped Watson make a shuffling sort of turn and guided him back to his tent. Once inside she spotted the uneaten food. “I didn’t think breakfast was much worth eating today either. I’ll clear these trays and then come back to change your bandage, okay.”

Leaning back on the pillows and closing his eyes, Watson nodded.

Hawkeye woke him from a light nap hours later. The Ian Flemming book he’d been pretending to read rested against his chest and Hawkeye closed it without marking the page before returning it to the beside table. Hawkeye was still wearing scrubs pants from OR, but had changed into a khaki undershirt and his red bathrobe. “Heard Sholto took out of here earlier than planned.”

“Yeah, well, the unit needed him.” Watson rubbed his eyes and tried to take the bitter edge out of his voice. At Hawkeye’s sharp look, he sighed. “I confessed, okay? Or tried. He shut me down, Hawk. I can tell you the rejection is worse than the not knowing. At least with the not knowing, there is still the idea of hope.” 

“That’s rough, John. I’m...” John waved his hand.

“For the best, I suppose. Who’d want an invalidated Army doctor like me anyway? I’ll go back to London and find a nice bedsit on my Army pension and maybe catch the eye of a spinster or war widow and...” But he couldn’t finish. He sank against the pillow defeated. “You didn’t come in here to hear my whinging.”

Hawkeye studied him for a moment before speaking. “Actually I came in to tell you your cab is here. Listen, I want you to know how much you’ve meant to me. John, you are the bravest, kindest, wisest man I’ve ever had the good fortune of knowing.” Hawkeye’s glassy blue eyes met John’s greyer.

“I’ll never be able to shake you, Hawk. I can’t imagine what this place would have been like if I hadn’t found you here.” John mustered up a smile.

A small knock on the door sounded too loud in the tent. “Cap’t Pierce, the evac bus is loaded up. Just waiting on Cap’t Watson, sir!” Klinger called through the door.

Hawkeye helped John shuffle to the wheelchair pushed against the second bed. He settled his duffle bag on his lap. From his boxing ring, Father Mulcahy watched as Hawkeye pushed Captain John H. Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers across the compound to the waiting ambulance. 

BJ climbed off the bus and shook Watson’s hand goodbye. Margaret gave him a gentle hug as she passed. Kellye was waiting shyly beside the bus with a straggly bouquet of wildflowers from the minefield. “I’ll save you a mango, sir.” She smiled. 

He leaned up to give her an unexpected hug. “Kellye, you are warm and sensitive and my life is all the better to have met you. You give this hug to Kalea, yeah? And tell her thank you from me.” Watson whispered in her ear.

“I gotta a schedule to keep, sir.” The ambulance driver called back to Hawkeye.

“Right, yeah.” Hawkeye mumbled. “To the best of times, John.” He reached to shake John’s hand.

“To the very best of times, Hawkeye.” Watson forced himself to smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote, “You’re so brave and quiet I forget you are suffering.” is Ernest Hemingway’s from A Farewell to Arms.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: I refered back to Ariane’s transcripts of A Study in Pink http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html and John Watson’s blog http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/ while writing this chapter. There are a few direct quotes from the blog scattered here and there.
> 
> Many, many thanks to MrsluluSpock for her help and guidance in writing this chapter. I started and deleted it completely three times, changing direction each time before she helped talk me through what you see below. If you're a Sherlock fan go check out her adorable Sherolly fic, Revelation http://archiveofourown.org/works/1183074

Two letters addressed to Hawkeye waited in the box along with mail for his father Dr. Daniel Pierce. The irony both letters arrived the same day was not lost on Hawkeye.

He weighed them in his hands, debating between them. One was a cheap white envelope with neat script postmarked “Philadelphia, Penn.” A lump built of uncertainty and sadness wrapped in a glimmer of hope formed in his throat. The other envelope a pale blue air mail envelope with a rough scrawl and a London return address of “221B Baker Street, London” piqued his curiosity and caused a flutter of excitement.

Once back in the warm kitchen of the Pierce family Victorian he was currently sharing with Daniel, Hawkeye tucked the letter from Philadelphia in his left shirt pocket and used a table knife from the drain board as a letter opener on the air mail envelope. Several pages of thin blue paper were folded neatly inside. On his walk up the drive he’d decided no matter the contents of the letter from Philadelphia, he wanted to savor it later. 

Hawkeye poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove and settled in himself in a kitchen chair to read. It was a lazy Saturday. Hawkeye was still getting used to being able to spend a leisurely morning sipping coffee, reading the mail, and thumbing through the newspaper or spring Sears and Roebucks catalog without the constant unsettled feeling that came from knowing at any minute he might be called away by a compound full of wounded soldiers. He’d seen far too much injury and violent death to last a lifetime.

_December 14, 1953_  
_Dear Hawkeye,_

_You know me. Not much for small talk so I’ll jump right in. The commonwealth hospital in Kure couldn’t find anything wrong with my knee, neither could Queen Alexandria’s in London. The doctors there determined my pain and limp are psychosomatic and sent me to a psychologist - Dr. Ella Thompson. They are wrong of course, but Dr. Thompson insists I continue sessions with him, so I go. Gets me out of my miserable bedsit once a week at least._

_Dr. Thompson seems to think writing what happens to me will help me work through “the trauma of the war.” Shell shock, he calls it. Anyway, for some crazy reason I thought writing to a real person would make more sense than just writing. Who better than the person who kept me from going insane the last year in Korea?_

_There’s some muscle tone loss in my left hand, and I get tremors so bad I can barely hold a pen some days. So I’m going to knock off for now._

They’d kept each other from going insane, Hawkeye had decided long ago. He still wondered if he would have ended up in Tokyo under the care of one Dr. Sidney Freeman following “the bus incident” had Watson been there to anchor him. A thought occurred to Hawkeye as he turned the paper over. Watson didn’t know. Watson hadn’t heard about Hawkeye’s shell shock diagnosis. He wondered what Watson would think if he knew they were in the same boat.

_December 15, 1953_

_This is all a pointless exercise. Nothing ever happens to me. Not anymore._

_December 22, 1953_

_Sholto returned home from Korea the end of May. It was big news here. He was leading a platoon of replacements on a recon mission. It was standard procedure for training purposes. They weren’t even expected to encounter Chinese patrols. The intel was wrong, though, and they got ambushed. Sholto was the only survivor. Murray tells me Sholto was badly burned in the attack. The public thinks he made an error and blame him for the deaths of the boys. I’ve rung him twice. He doesn’t take my calls._

_This bedsit of mine is about the plainest thing you’ve ever seen, Hawkeye. The only good thing I can say for it is at least it’s not khaki green. It’s beige instead. There’s a bureau and a small desk in the corner, which is where I’m sitting now. A twin sized bed with a too soft mattress. I’m so used to sleeping sitting up in a foxhole, some nights I take to sleeping on the floor. I have a window, but it overlooks the brick wall to the flat across the way, so I keep the curtains closed most of the time. I’d like to move, maybe find a flatmate. Who’d want me for a flatmate, though. I can’t afford the rent on anything nicer; I wake up screaming in the middle of the night; and all I seem capable of is moping around the flat all day._

“Mail call?” Daniel asked when he discovered Hawkeye sitting at the table with the letter spread out before him.

“Mmm...from my buddy Watson, the British fellow. I told you about him.” Hawkeye took a sip of coffee and held his cup out to Daniel who stood at his shoulder with the pot. “Thanks, Dad.”

Daniel sat across from Hawkeye with his own cup of coffee and thumbed through the morning paper. “ _Shane_ is still playing at the Paramount in Portland. What say we have a night out tonight, Hawk? We can have dinner at Marcy’s Diner and catch the seven o’clock show.”

Hawkeye cringed at the thought. It was almost impossible to explain that all he really wanted to do was curl up in the new blue terry bathrobe he’d bought himself, drink too much Scotch and watch _Toast of the Town_ on television. But Daniel was trying to find some way to reconnect with his son. Hawkeye suspected perhaps Daniel was also trying spare him one night without chickens, babies, and wounded soldiers with John Watson’s face bleeding out in his arms haunting his dreams, so Hawkeye forced a grin. “Sure. Sounds like fun.”

_January 6, 1954_

_Happy New Year, Hawkeye. Should auld acquaintance and all that rot._

_I met up with Murray for drinks yesterday. He’s got a girl. They’ve been together four months now. Murray says as soon as he’s out of medical school this year, he’s going to propose._

_As for me, I haven’t had a leg over since you and me in the supply hut back in February. Christ, has it really been nearly a year? No one wants an invalided war veteran. Three Continents Watson certainly had a good run while it lasted. Now I’m no better off than the widow who comes in to clean once a week._

_Do you remember, Hawkeye? Do you remember that last time? I do. I remember how your skin tasted, salty and musky. And you smelled of ether and surgical soap and that home brewed gin of yours. You’d just come off OR duty, and I’d wandered in from the line. Neither of us had showered in 24 hours. Later we ate the posh cheese you nicked from Winchester on those dreadful soda crackers because I told you how I missed cheese sandwiches._

Hawkeye did remember. He had staggered back to the Swamp after a meatball surgery session where he’d lost two kids in a row to find Watson covered in dirt and gunpowder and half asleep on his bunk. They were both so tired the only thing keeping them upright had been adrenaline, endorphins, and desperation. John couldn’t even wait to get Hawkeye’s scrubs off, although John likely would have claimed the same thing about Hawkeye.

There hadn’t been too many notches on Hawkeye’s bedpost either since that afternoon in the supply hut. After John had been discharged, Hawkeye had then taken up with Millie Carpenter who went for a walk in the minefield and never returned. Hawkeye never did get his feet back underneath him before the “bus incident.” He supposed now he could call on Mary Parker down the lane who’d always responded to his flirting, or Joe Tucker, the boy who helped him realize he liked the feel of a man under his hands just as much as a woman. But it all seemed like too much effort these days.

_January 20, 1954_  
_Hawkeye,_

_Dr. Thompson says many of the returning soldiers have shell shock. I saw plenty of them come home in August. None of them have unexplained limps or tremors in their hands. None of them mention nightmares so bad they wake up drenched in sweat. None of them keep their British Army issue revolver hidden in their desk drawer of their tiny, dreary bedsit just in case it’s all too much work to make it through another day._

_Yeah, I somehow stole my revolver. It wasn’t intentional. Pretty sure Murray packed my gear. Nothing was folded or organized. My spare trousers were covered in mud and a bottle of Scotch broke over everything in transit from Kure to London. By the time I got to London no one was interested in dealing with my sodden, stinking gear. When I unpacked it weeks later my revolver was still in its holster at the top of the bag where Klinger placed it for me upon leaving the 4077._

_I sit staring at it some nights when the nightmares get too bad. One round. That’s all it’d take. No more nightmares. No more loneliness. No more bloody cane or hand tremors._

Hawkeye nodded to himself. He knew the sheer terror of waking up in the middle of the night in panic. There were still days at the clinic he had to ask Daniel to take a child patient because he just couldn’t look the young mother in the eye. And forget getting on a bus. Seven months ago when the Army deposited him in Boston, Daniel Pierce had had to drive down from Crabapple Cove to bring Hawkeye home because he couldn’t face getting on a bus. Sometimes he wondered if he’d still be around himself if he weren’t so opposed to guns.

_January 25, 1954_

_I’ve taken to walking through the park near Barts...sorry, St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. It’s where I trained. January has been warm in London compared to January in Korea. I keep thinking I might spot someone I knew before. It’s a rubbish thought._

_January 29, 1954_

__Nothing ever happens to me. But today something did. I was walking through the park when someone called my name. An old mate of mine from Barts by the name of Mike Stamford. Christ, he got fat! Anyway, we went for a bite, and he told me about this bloke he knows looking for a flatmate. We went off to Barts to meet him._ _

_He was mad, Hawkeye, I’m certain he was mad. But a bit charming too. Mad and charming. He knew all about me just from a glance. He knew I’d been in Korea and had been invalided (although I supposed that part’s obvious). He did say my limp is psychosomatic so he didn’t get everything right._

_We’re off to see a flat together tomorrow. Me and the madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes._

_February 7, 1954_  
_Hawkeye,_

_The day I met Sherlock Holmes he told me my life story just based on my limp and my tan lines and my pocket watch. It’s no use trying to hide what you are because he sees through people in seconds. The git is ignorant about other things, though. I’m not sure he knows who the prime minister is, and he claims not to know the earth revolves around the sun. Yet, he’s written a paper on 420 types of tobacco ash._

_He’s some sort of private detective. Consulting detective he calls is. Says he invented the job. There’s a detective inspector at Scotland Yard by the name of Lestrade who hires him when he has a case the Yard can’t solve. There was such a case the day we moved into our new flat. We hadn’t even gotten settled properly when Lestrade came ‘round. We’d had a string of connected suicides here in London, but there was something fishy about them._

_We went off to the suicide scene with Lestrade where Holmes introduced me as his colleague. And just like that, I became his helpmate, as it were. He deduced nearly everything about the victim in a matter of minutes. The next day found us on a stake out where we managed to have a bit of a talk and get to know each other more intimately. (No, not like that, you git!)_

_The stake out ended with us chasing a cab through the streets of London. Yes, me running through London. It was only when we returned here to Baker Street...that’s where the new flat is...I realized I’d left my cane behind. So I guess my limp is psychosomatic after all. I haven’t used the cane since._

_Holmes solved the case the next day, of course. He’s brilliant like that. We have been settling into an odd sort of domesticity. One day is comfortably quiet and easy. The next we’re investigating a crime scene._

_It seems like too much of a coincidence, but I believe Holmes may be one of us. Although he knew everything else there was to know about me. Perhaps he deduced my...preferences as well and that is why he chose me. Because he did, indeed, choose me. I’m not sure I had much of a say in it all. He is positively magnetic, even though he says most people hate him. He may be onto something there. Aside from Lestrade, the folks at the Yard didn’t appear excited about him showing up at the scene last week. One of the policemen even seems to enjoy calling him “freak.”_

_February 9, 1954_

_The first time I saw Holmes I watched him glance at Mike and me so casually like he knew I was coming. He’s got these eyes that see - no, observe - everything in a second. They’re piercing blue. Not like yours, which are the color of the Atlantic on a sunny day. And not Sholto’s smoke blue. More like the color of the sky when the clouds part after the rain. He’s tall, though, nearly as tall as you and Sholto, but painfully thin. Holmes’ hair...dear God, Hawkeye, some days I’d give anything to run my fingers through it when he comes out of the bath. It’s curly, so during the day he has it slicked back, of course. But when we’re alone together in the flat, it’s loose and flopping into his face and looks like black silk._

_I wonder in the dark of night when I can’t sleep, and I hear Holmes downstairs playing his violin...yes, the bloody bloke plays the violin...at those times I wonder what it would be like to stand with my back pressed against his chest. With my head tucked under his chin like we would stand sometimes. I wonder what his chest feels like. Is it smooth and bare or does it have fine patches of hair like yours. I wonder how his mouth tastes, how his skin tastes after we run through the streets of London._

_I wonder how many people don’t get the one they want, but end up with the one they’re supposed to be with. It feels so natural to be here listening to soft strains of Wagner or Mendelssohn drifting up the stairs late at night. Or running through the streets of London chasing after a suspect in one of Holmes’ our cases. Or arguing with a DI from the Yard. I wonder if I’m supposed to be with Holmes. Not necessarily a romantic affair either, Hawkeye. Just be. Because I’ll be damned; I could be happy simply living here at Baker Street with Holmes in any capacity. And after pining for Sholto for so long and losing him in the end, after being force due to distance to accept you for merely a friend, I’d easily give up the idea of an entanglement just to see where life with this bloody brilliant, charming, extraordinary, maddening man takes me._

_February 10, 1954_  
_Hawkeye,_

_I figure if I’m ever to mail this to you in earnest I should probably get it in the post now. Sherlock went down to the Yard for a bit and I’m going to walk to the market for groceries. We seem to be perpetually out of milk and biscuits and bread, but never cheese. I can post this on the way home from the market. Do write to tell me how things are with you, yeah? What’s the word on the Mulcahy front? Or is that a lost cause? I’m hopeful this letter will find you in Crabapple Cove. It occurs to me you may have gone back to Boston after the war instead._

_Always, a friend,_  
_John H. Watson_

Hawkeye let out a deep breath before folding the letter back into the envelope. There was plenty he wanted to say to Watson. “I think I’ll go over Mrs. Carmichael’s file, Dad.” He said pushing his chair back. “You need the study for a bit?” 

Daniel shook his head, barely glancing over his paper. Once settled in the small home office the father and son shared, Hawkeye took out a steno pad and the fountain pen Daniel had given him upon graduation from medical school. 

_March 4, 1954_  
_John,_

_Turns out war isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Then again, neither is cracking up._

He began. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if there is a Paramount Theater in Portland, Maine, but according to my good friend Google, Marcy's Diner does exist.
> 
>  _I wonder how many people don’t get the one they want, but end up with the one they’re supposed to be with._ ~Fannie Flagg, Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most, but not all, of what Mulcahy relates as his life following the war is canon compliant to the s1e1 of AfterM*A*S*H. You can watch AfterM*A*S*H on YouTube, but the video and sound quality is sketchy.

The smell of the diesel fuel and the squeal of the brakes on the bus behind him at the station caused Hawkeye to freeze with one foot on the step of his Boston bound bus and one foot firmly planted on the platform. His lungs forgot how to breathe. The palms of his hands sweat. The vision in his eyes blurred. 

“On or off, buddy! I gotta schedule to keep!” The driver barked at him. For a brief moment Hawkeye pondered trying to catch Daniel in the parking lot and borrow the Studebaker for the trip. He pried his hand from the metal handrail and patted the letter tucked into the left breast pocket of his jacket.

“On. On. Here I am, climbing on.” Hawkeye declared, more to himself than anyone else. He wondered wildly if Sidney would be proud of him or question his motives. There were no children aboard and for that he whispered a silent prayer of thanks. Once he found a seat somewhere near the middle of the bus, he pulled the letter he received from Philadelphia two weeks ago from his pocket. 

Still unused to timely mail delivery, he had sent a postcard in reply the very next day. He had called the bus station in Portland, then gone down to 5 and Dime on Main Street and found a postcard with a photo of the bay at sunset. A similar view to the one from his own front porch. “Of course I’ll be there. Departing March 14 14:15pm bus from Portland. Arriving in Boston at 16:45pm. Dinner when I get there?” Hawkeye had debated including anything more personal but he wasn’t sure what to say that would be acceptable. After all the last thing he’d said to the man was “Your shirt’s on backward.”

As the bus began moving, Hawkeye unfolded the letter and read it for the hundredth time.

_February 28, 1954_

_Dear Hawkeye,_

_I suppose you’ve heard through Colonel Potter and BJ by now about my hearing loss. Potter told me rescuing those Chinese POW’s was a “damn fool thing to do,” but I just couldn’t leave them out there in the compound during shelling._

Hawkeye could hear Mulcahy’s voice in his mind as he read. The letter went on to describe tympanoplasty surgery to repair hearing in Mulcahy’s left and worst ear. Then there was a brief stint as chaplain at the VA hospital in Missouri with Potter. And finally a return to Philadelphia where Winchester, of all people, had connected Father Mulcahy with an audiologist in Boston to consult on restoring the hearing in the right ear.

_Dr. Winchester will be unable to meet me at Boston City Hospital for the consult with the audiologist due to an unexpected trip to New York for a conference. Hawkeye, I know it’s a lot to ask, but I was hoping you might accompany me to the appointment the morning of March 15._

_By way of apology, Dr. Winchester has booked me a room at The Langham. He promises it to be a fine establishment; one I suspect is well above my pay grade. I shall be there beginning March 14 for a two night stay. Before then I can be reached at Mrs. Turner’s Boarding House in Philadelphia - address enclosed._

_Perhaps we might also be able to catch up a bit while you’re in town. BJ has told me so little of your life in Crabapple Cove since you returned._

_~~Sinc~~_ _Best,_  
_~~Fath~~_ _Francis_

The bus lurched a bit as it made a turn out of Portland. Hawkeye gripped the armrest. No turning back now, he thought.

Aside from the panic that ebbed and flowed through him, the trip was as uneventful as the one to a battalion aid station in Korea a hundred years ago. Sun shone through the bare branches of trees just attempting production of tiny bud tips. The letter he’d begun to John Watson ten days prior had morphed into a similar journal type style to John’s letter to him. The last entry now rested untouched on Hawkeye’s lap as he watched landscape appear and disappear out the bus window.

_March 14, 1954_  
_John,_

_I’m riding down to Boston this afternoon to accompany Mulcahy to his audiologist appointment. I can think of no reasonable explanation why Mulcahy would ask me to do so. He’s no stranger to tympanoplasty surgery now. Our Army pal Trapper still lives in Boston, and in fact is now an attending at Boston City Hospital. There seems to be little reason for my presence, yet I knew as soon as I read Mulcahy’s letter, I do anything her asked of me simply because it’s Mulcahy. Even get on a damned bus._

It was a bus ride he’d taken countless times before while in college, medical school, and finally during residency. The feeling of excitement of returning to the bustle and energy of Boston escaped him this trip. Indeed, looking past the panic the bus itself induced, he felt confusion. 

As the sun lowered in the sky and the city of Boston rose in the horizon, it occurred to Hawkeye that Mulcahy would think nothing of meeting him at the station, even though the hotel was several city blocks away. And so as the bus slowed, he tucked the Steno pad with its letter to Watson into his travel case and straightened his tie. After brushing off his jacket of any stray lint, Hawkeye fiddled with the cuff link on his left wrist while waiting for the women on the bus to deboard.

Just out of his line of sight on the platform stood a shorter man than Hawkeye shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun with a new panama hat. His hair now reflected almost as much grey as dishwater blond. “War will do that to a fella,” Colonel Potter had told him not too long ago. A warm fawn colored wool suit, pale blue cotton shirt and a darker blue tie brought out the blue in his eyes. He liked the lighter colors over the stark black priests were destined to wear and certainly over olive drab of his Army uniform.

“Hawkeye! Hawkeye!” Mulcahy’s tenor voice rose above the din on the platform. To Hawkeye, he’d never heard a sweeter sound, except for the announcement seven months ago “The war is over. The war is over.”

Hawkeye turned in the direction of Mulcahy calling his name, unsure if he felt relief or a new wave of nerves or both. He worked his way through the crowd and extended a hand. “Father!” Did Mulcahy understand the thousands of words and emotions he wanted to say and tried to put behind the simple one word greeting?

“It’s much too loud here for me for conversation, Hawkeye, even the pleasantries of small talk. Let’s go find a cab. Then we can talk.” Mulcahy stated before Hawk could say anything more. Once on the street, he added “How was your trip?”

“Oh, swell. I only had a panic attack every 10 miles.”

Mulcahy stopped short and placed a hand on his arm. “Hawkeye, I’m so sorry. How inconsiderate of me! I never thought how difficult it would be for you to get on a bus.”

“It’s alright, Father.” _For you, a million times over_ , he wanted to whisper into Mulcahy’s ear. They stood on the sidewalk momentarily letting people move around them. Hawkeye didn’t want to start walking again if it meant losing the warm hand on his arm. A taxi pulled up near the stand, and Mulcahy waved his hand.

“The Langham, 250 Franklin Street, please.” The cab ride was unusually quiet. Hawkeye, who was brimming with questions, found he wasn’t able to formulate any of them well enough to ask. Mulcahy, who appeared to be buzzing with gentle excitement at the bus station, had subdued into a quiet embarrassment once they settled in the cab. “The food at The Langham restaurant is quite good.” He offered about a block away from their destination. “I had an early lunch there while waiting for my room to be ready. I thought we could eat dinner there too.”

“That sounds perfect, Father.” Hawkeye murmured.

The two men entered the hotel lobby. After Hawkeye checked in to his own room and had his travel case sent up, Mulcahy steered them toward a small table in the corner of the bar. “Martini, dry, for my friend. And ginger ale for me. We have a six o’clock reservation, if you don’t mind fetching us?” He asked the waitress. Hawkeye raised an eyebrow at Mulcahy’s forwardness. It was certainly not a trait he associated with the Father. “Hawkeye...there is one thing I need to ask of you. Could you please call me Francis from here out?”

The bar was nearly empty at this early hour, but Mulcahy spoke quietly nonetheless. “Of course, Fa...Francis. May I ask why?”

The darkness of the bar did little to hide Mulcahy’s pained expression. “It’s a long story, but one you deserve to know.” He took a breath. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes. “It seems the Catholic church has no use for a deaf priest. When I returned from Korea, the diocese in Philadelphia declined to assign me to a parish. I asked to be assigned to the Pennsylvania School for the Deaf as a teacher, but they refused that request as well. You notice I’m only drinking ginger ale tonight? Well, I fell into a depression. After all, what good is a deaf priest? I began to think God was deaf too. I began drinking so much my sister Katherine - God bless her - took a leave of absence care for me. Eventually Colonel Potter helped me arrange the tympanoplasty surgery on my left ear in St. Louis. I then moved to the VA hospital in River Bend, Missouri to recover. Potter later offered me the job of hospital chaplain there. The diocese in Philadelphia seemed all too eager to get rid of me and transfered me to the Missouri diocese without question.”

The waitress set drinks before the two men and Mulcahy took a long drink before continuing. “Oh, it was wonderful to work with Colonel Potter again and Klinger too. They helped me sober up, but the hospital wanted me to be more priestly than I’d been accustomed to back at the 4077. They didn’t appreciate my...”

“Eccentricities?” Hawkeye offered.

Francis gave him an odd look. “Yes, quite. I left in January and made my way back to Philadelphia. Neither diocese wants me. Nor does the New York diocese. I’d considered a transfer there to teach at St. Joseph’s School for the Deaf. Katherine suggested asking for a transfer to San Diego. It’d be lovely to spend more time with my dear sister, but I don’t like the idea of leaving the East Coast. Not yet, anyway.” Mulcahy huffed a sigh and leaned back in his chair, clearly exhausted and overwhelmed. He thought of the times he’d seen Mulcahy this emotional. Often it was an emotional Mulcahy who sat at the piano in the Officers Club, eager to soothe his weariness. 

Mulcahy took a deep, somewhat shaky breath followed by another long drink of ginger ale. “I need you to call me Francis because I’m leaving the priesthood. I started the process when I returned to Philadelphia in January. The church doesn’t want to let me go, but no one seems to want me either.”

I do. I want you, Francis. Hawkeye’s brain screamed, but he couldn’t make his mouth form any words that might not be misconstrued at the moment. Instead he downed his martini and motioned to the waitress hovering just out of earshot for another. Mulcahy...Francis no longer a priest. What did this mean?

When she returned she told the men “It’s early yet, gentlemen, but the restaurant could seat you any time. Could I have your drinks sent to your table, Mr. Mulcahy?”

Mulcahy nodded and stood. “I could freshen up before we eat. Join you at the table?”

Hawkeye nodded in return and followed the waitress out of the bar. The restaurant was just as empty. He glanced around at the dim lighting, linen table cloths, and grand piano in the corner. Any other time he might find the setting romantic. Tonight it felt ironically inappropriate. He sat at the table as far away from the piano as possible, figuring Mulcahy requested the location intentionally. 

A small black electrical unit with a long wire and ear piece was placed on the table. “I thought I might need my hearing aid, but it appears not.” Francis forced a smile, sitting in his chair. “Blessed thing. I hate wearing it. When you go to the movies, you hear the movie. When I wear it I hear the movie and every other small noise in the theater. Restaurants are the worst, but it appears we’ve gotten lucky this evening. I should be able to hear you just fine. Although, I must say, Hawkeye, you’ve been uncharacteristically quiet.”

“I’m just...surprised is all.” Hawkeye met Francis’ eyes. “What’s next for you, then?”

“Let’s order, shall we? Then we’ll talk. The waiter this afternoon suggested the filet of sole.” Mulcahy offered.

“Well then.” Hawkeye plastered a smile on his face. “How can we go wrong?”

Mulcahy motioned over the waiter and they placed their orders. “Tell me,” he said after the waiter left the table, “how are you getting on asking Crabapple Cove to say ‘Ahh...’?”

Resigning himself to the fact Francis was not going to continue sharing about himself just yet, Hawk launched into tales about life in a small town. Their entree came as he related treating Joe Tucker with a severe laceration to the upper arm from slipping on the ice at Christmas and cutting himself with the clam knife he’d been carrying. Mulcahy interrupted his monologue only to “Oh,” and “Hum,” and order them each a slice of apple pie, “A la mode, please,” and a cup of coffee.

Over pie and a short, uncomfortable silence while Hawkeye thought of something else to share (they’d gotten all the way up to Hawkeye’s new correspondence with John Watson), Francis met Hawkeye’s gaze. “I have a confession to make, Hawkeye. I’m afraid I brought you to Boston under false pretenses. Oh, there is an audiologist appointment tomorrow, but I’ve been through all this before. And now that the left ear has been repaired, hearing the doctor is not an issue. I did not need anyone to accompany me to the appointment.” He swallowed. “This isn’t the first time I’ve considered leaving the church. I considered it a year ago in Korea on a day much like today. I considered it the day you kissed me and later confessed your feelings for me.”

“But you didn’t...”

“Hawkeye, please, let me...just let me say this! You had your turn a year ago and denied me mine. I would have easily given up the priesthood that day for you. But it would have been a mistake.” Mulcahy glanced at Hawkeye who looked crestfallen. “Hear me out. No, I needed to give up the priesthood for myself. And I am. I’m leaving the church because I can no longer spend my life in limbo with the church saying they don’t want me but don’t want me to be anywhere...anyone else. Since I’ve made that decision, I’ve felt more free than I’ve felt my entire life. Something is missing, though. You see, early in our deployment in Korea, I set myself by the standard of what would meet the approval of the least religious person in camp. If I could earn his respect, I was doing something right. Later, I realized not only had I earned his respect and he mine, but I’d come to feel deeply for this person.”

The waiter stopped by the table to warm up their coffee. Mulcahy took a sip before continuing. “It’s you, Hawkeye. It’s always been you. You keep me right. You’re the first person I think of in the morning and the last person I think of at night. Throughout the day I ask myself often what your reaction would be to the things I do. At the VA hospital a black man struggled to walk using new prosthetics. He claimed they didn’t feel like a part of him. In looking at the artificial limbs, I realized they skin tone was quite pale. A voice in my head, no, your voice in my head said ‘Paint them brown so the man will feel comfortable.’ I did, and the next day he was walking the halls like a champ.”

For once in his life Hawkeye was completely speechless. “It might seem I’m turning to you as a last resort, Hawkeye, but I’m not. In truth, I’ve discovered myself and what I want from life. I never felt sure about anything, but I’m so sure about you.” Mulcahy swirled the last bit of coffee in his cup, suddenly feeling self-conscious now that he’d poured his heart out to the man still speechless in front of him. “Well, say something, dammit!” He exclaimed after a long silence.

“I...Francis...” Hawkeye stammered. “Are you....”

“I'm following your advice from Millie Carpenter’s memorial service. I'm telling you, Benjamin Franklin Pierce, that I love you. That I want to be yours if you'll have me, and I want you to be mine.”

The only other person Hawkeye thought he'd loved as much as the man sitting in front of him was Carlye and he'd screwed up that relationship in a hunter green apartment not 10 blocks from here. Could he take his own advice and not brush off Mulcahy's confession? Hell, he’d gotten this far....

“Francis,” Hawkeye resisted the urge to reach across the table for his hand. “I've loved you for...well, since the beginning, I suppose. Yes, yes of course I'll have you.”

“The restaurant is beginning to get crowded. Would you like to come up to my room?” Francis asked.

“Oh God, yes.”


	11. Chapter 11

It was reluctantly agreed Hawkeye would pay for dinner. “Please let me do this, Francis.” Mulcahy left the restaurant while Hawkeye waited - impatiently - for the check. The walk up the three flights of stairs to room 319 was no less torturous. 

Once Mulcahy answered the door, Hawkeye slipped inside and pushed Francis against it kissing him firmly, almost desperately. He pinned Francis to the door with a hand on each shoulder and felt small trembling hands fisting into his black cashmere jacket against his back. There was nothing delicate or gentle or tender about this kiss. It was four years of pent up desire and longing and pure lust cascading out of Hawkeye and into Francis. A slick, wet tongue probed Francis’ lips seeking entrance and more contact. Hawkeye pressed himself into Francis and moved his hands down to loosen his tie. Francis gasped and moved his hands with Hawkeye’s, stilling them against their chests. 

“Hawkeye,” he breathed, their lips still against each other. “Hawkeye, please!” The tone was sharper than he intended, with a hint of panic.

Hawkeye pulled back to meet Francis’ eyes. “I’m sorry, Hawkeye. I - I planned everything about this day. Every detail, except - except what would happen if you said yes.” Francis blushed and Hawkeye could see his confidence waning. He closed his watery blue eyes and leaned his forehead against Hawkeye’s chin.

“Francis...I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Hawkeye murmured, kissing into the grey blond hair. “I should have thought. This is all very new to you, isn’t it?”

“Not completely new. There was someone, once, but.... It’s - it’s been a very long time, Hawkeye. Could we just...” Francis trailed off.

Hawkeye worked a hand free of Francis’ where they still rested together under Francis’ chin and tipped his head up.

“We” Hawkeye punctuated the word with a kiss to Francis’ forehead.

“Can” Another kiss over one eye.

“Do” and one over the other eye.

“Anything.” and then Francis’ nose.

“You want.” A final kiss landed softly, reverently, pouring as much love as he could on Francis’ his mouth. 

When Francis sighed against Hawkeye's touch, but didn't respond otherwise, Hawkeye regrouped. “Listen, I know it’s early, but I’m going to go to my room down the hall to change into my pajamas. And then what if we see what’s on television?”

“That would be alright with you?” Francis asked still blushing.

“If it means spending the evening with you, yes. Anything. Anything you want.” Hawkeye responded. He kissed Francis on the forehead again for good measure. 

*****

The first thought that crossed Hawkeye’s mind the next morning when he woke tangled in the limbs of another body was panic. Their legs were intertwined, an arm rested on his chest, and his hand had found the soft cotton covered flesh of an upper thigh. They weren’t exactly sleeping in embrace. Both had made a nest for themselves independent from the other, but they had certainly sought contact from each other in their sleep. Bright sunlight wrestled its way through the crack between the curtains. Although the position was as ungraceful as possible, Hawkeye realized it was the best night’s sleep he’d had in months.

As he recalled the conversation last night and who the warm body belonged to, he relaxed into the mattress and awkward embrace. Hawkeye glanced down at the dirty blond hair feathered out near his shoulder and smiled. “Oh, right.” Sneaking away under threat of violence or dishonorable discharge was unnecessary. Francis snuffled into his pillow, making a quiet noise in his sleep.

They had fallen asleep while sitting against the headboard, both in their pajamas, watching sitcoms on television, eating peanuts from the mini bar, and laughing at some of the good memories of Korea. At some point in a quiet comfortable lull Francis had rested his head on Hawkeye’s shoulder. “Tell me, Hawkeye, when did you first realize you were in love with me?”

Hawkeye looked down into the eyes peering up at him, picturing Francis at the tinny piano playing ragtime and show tunes and Glenn Miller slightly off key in the Officers Club. “There doesn’t seem to be any one moment that stands out. There’s no ‘Ah-ha.’ I can tell you on there were nights the only thing that could soothe my racing mind was listening to you play the piano. Some nights I could have easily holed up in the Swamp with gin and my misery and I’d hear the first notes of the piano across the compound. It’d draw me in every time. I’d force my feet back into combat boots and find myself in the OC just to listen to you play. At some point, sitting there cutting jokes with BJ to keep from screaming, I realized there was nowhere else I’d rather be than in that khaki covered cesspool if you were at the piano. I remember every note of every song you’ve played, Francis. Especially the ones you played when you thought I wasn’t listening.”

Shortly after his declaration, they both drifted off to sleep. The TV station signing off for the night with the National Anthem woke Hawkeye who was reluctant to leave the warm embrace. Just the nearness of Francis caused his heart to give way. He stayed against the headboard occasionally peppering the silky hair with kisses for several minutes before he eased himself out from under Francis, drew the covers over him, and turned off the television and bedside light.

He had just opened the door to slip down the hall to his own room when he heard a quiet, sleep-filled voice from the bed. “You could sleep here...if you’d like.” And so Hawkeye had.

Now in the light of day Hawkeye angled his body to watch Francis sleep. He marveled at the form next to him snoring quietly in crisp white sheets and a plush mattress. Everything about the room glared out in contrast to Hawkeye’s memories of rough wool blankets in corrugated metal supply huts where intimacy was cut short out of necessity. He thought of Watson chuckling as he buckled his trousers, as he so often did. “Well, ta for that, Hawk.” he’d say. Sweat hadn’t even dried on their bodies before they moved for clothes and gear. Watson with his grey green eyes and his grim, sad smile, and their hurried affections, and lewd kisses in dark corners, and the refusal to allow themselves to feel anything more than camaraderie with each other. Hawkeye could almost taste the dust of Watson’s skin on his tongue when Francis snuffled again. The image in his head scattered in the wind when he looked down at Francis’ peaceful face once more.

Eventually the urge to use the bathroom drove Hawkeye out of the bed. He debated for a moment in the bathroom going to his room for a quick shower, but when he walked out, Francis had awoken. “I was afraid you’d left.” He murmured with sleep still in his voice.

“Just answering the call of nature.” There was a moment of awkwardness as Hawkeye tried to figure out if he should sit on the bed or the small chair in the corner or make an excuse to leave to tidy up.

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Hawkeye!” Francis laughed exasperated and moved his legs. “Sit!”

“So,” Hawkeye began as he sat on the edge of the bed. He felt like a gangly teenager who hadn’t grown into his limbs yet and he was fairly certain that’s what he looked like as well. “Where do we go from here? I’m supposed to go back to Crabapple Cove this afternoon on the 15:30 bus.”

“Well, for starters I do still have an audiologist appointment in four hours, so I’d suggest a shower and breakfast. I’m starving.” Francis smiled. The hotel room for tonight is paid for, though. Could you stay another night? After that, well, we have a lifetime to figure it out.”

Hawkeye’s face radiated his joy. “Yes, yes we do!” He stopped himself short of leaning in for a kiss, but Francis surprised him by pulling him down for one instead.

“Now go take a shower in your room while I take mine. I’ll call up for some breakfast.” Francis ordered in his easy, good natured humor.

“French toast and sausage, please. It’s my favorite.” He suddenly felt giddy.

“Yes, yes. I know.” He laughed and pushed Hawkeye out of the room.

Francis was getting out of the shower when he heard Hawkeye’s voice in the bedroom. “Yes, Dad. Everything’s fine. No, the bus was...good. Really. Now that I’m down here I thought I’d stay an extra day. Maybe have dinner with Trapper if he’s not in surgery. No, no. I’ll see you tomorrow. Same time. Love you, Dad.”

An hour later the two men walked into the lobby. Hawkeye felt as though he couldn’t stop the grin on his face. They still had time before Mulcahy’s appointment so Hawkeye had promised a tour of his old “haunts.” They waited by the stand for the bellhop to return and call them a taxi.

“Oh, take good care of yourselves today, gentlemen. The wind is free!” exclaimed the bellhop when he followed a guest inside with packages in his arms.

The statement took Hawkeye back to an evening at the Officers Club and sitting at the piano with Francis. He burst into laughter that pealed across the lobby. “What did he say?” Francis turned to Hawkeye. “What’s so funny?”

Hawkeye leaned in close to repeat the bellhop’s statement and then added. “Button up your overcoat, Francis. You belong to me.”


End file.
